The Absinthe of Reason
by Mundungus42
Summary: An ill timed toast binds Hermione and her friends to a difficult and potentially humiliating task. SSHG, contains rude bits.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Absinthe of Reason  
  
Author: Mundungus42  
  
Rating: R  
  
Disclaimer: I own very few things. Harry Potter is not one of them.  
  
Summary: Response to the WIKTT Gryffindor Stud challenge  
  
Challenge Requirements:  
  
1 Hermione must use at least one corny pick up line on Snape  
  
2 Hermione must win the title of Gryffindor Stud  
  
3 Snape must stay as snarky and sarcastic as possible  
  
Optional:  
  
1 All of the girls of Hogwarts including the Slytherin girls find out about the challenge and help Hermione  
  
2 Slash is acceptable  
  
3 Lavender and Parvati give Hermione seduction tips  
  
4 The guys use one or more of the corny pickup lines   
  
~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
It was nearing midnight and the party atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room had died down considerably. All the younger members of the house had retired to their dormitories for the evening, and most of the older students had found more private places to continue their celebrations of Gryffindor's brilliant win over Slytherin.  
  
Hermione Granger gazed over the towering pile of books on the table in front of her and tentatively removed one of her earplugs. Finally! The Gryffindor flag that Seamus had enchanted to sing an off-colour, anti- Slytherin rendition of "God Save the Queen" hung limply on the wall, apparently sung out.  
  
Only a handful of revelers remained, seated in a tight circle in front of the fire. All of them were seventh year boys and doing something they oughtn't, judging by the furtive looks Seamus was shooting over his shoulder.  
  
Well, if they were doing anything illegal, it was up to her, as Head Girl to stop it. She removed her other earplug and crept up silently behind Seamus. Ron noticed her approach and immediately shoved a paper-wrapped cylinder under his robe. All the others, save Seamus, were studying the carpet with great enthusiasm.  
  
"Don't look at me like that Seamus Finnegan. If you boys weren't doing anything you shouldn't have, you wouldn't look guilty. And I'd think you'd have more sense than to do it in the common room! Well, let's have a look then. What have you got, Ron?"  
  
Neville leaped to his feet. "You can't write him up, Hermione, Fred and George sent it to him. He was just showing us, we weren't going to drink any, honest!"  
  
Hermione turned to Ron, eyebrows raised. "I'm surprised you'd even think about drinking anything Fred and George gave you."  
  
"I don't reckon they'd jinx a celebration present," he said, reluctantly handing her the parcel.  
  
Hermione pulled down the plain brown wrapper and frowned. "Butter rum?"  
  
"It's brilliant," said Seamus, eyes aglow. "Me da once gave me a sip of his. It's like butter-beer only a million times better."  
  
Harry frowned. "If it's like butter beer, why is it such a big deal?"  
  
"I keep forgetting you weren't raised in a Magical family," said Ron. "We're not allowed to have it here because it's about twenty times stronger than butter-beer. It's about fifty percent alcohol."  
  
Harry whistled. "My uncle once served some 100-proof cognac at a dinner party, and three of the guests passed out in the living room. He was out until three in the morning driving the rest of them home. He sticks to sherry for guests now."  
  
"Yeah, well Muggles don't have sobering spells, do they?" Hermione pointed out.  
  
Seamus raised his eyebrows. "What do you know about sobering spells?"  
  
Hermione sat down between him and Neville. "I know enough that I've never lost points for being drunk in class."  
  
Ron snorted. "Unlike some other people I know."  
  
"Just because Dean is off making out with Ginny doesn't mean we'll let you sully his good name with unfair accusations," said Hermione primly, ignoring Ron's indignant squawk. "You know perfectly well that it wasn't Dean's fault. Malfoy was the one who put the rye into his polemic potion instead of rue, and Professor Snape was the one who made Dean test it."  
  
The boys laughed, but Hermione inspected the seal on the bottle with a practised eye. "I can't believe it. The bottle doesn't appear to be tampered with."  
  
She deftly removed the cork with her wand and transfigured it into a small tumbler. She poured a small amount of the butter-rum into the glass and held it up to the light, swirling it gently.  
  
Seamus gawked at her. "You're going to drink with us?"  
  
She shot him a withering glance. "I need to test it first. There are a number of potions that can only be delivered in alcoholic beverages. If Fred and George did anything to it, we can't exactly tell Madam Pomfrey how we happened to be under the effect of one of them."  
  
"Be our guest, Mad-Eye," said Ron, reclining on to a large cushion with a grin on his face.  
  
Seamus, still mildly shaken by the sight of Hermione with glass of strong spirits in her hand, cast a suspicious look at Ron. "You don't seem too surprised by this."  
  
Ron and Harry laughed. "She's been studying uses of alcohol for an independent study with Snape."  
  
Seamus's eyes were in danger of falling out of his head. "You go drinking with Snape?"  
  
Hermione sighed, but didn't look up from the glass of Butter-Rum. It was surrounded by a faint purple glow. "We don't go drinking, Seamus. I just thought that alcohol was worth studying, given that it's been used as a Muggle remedy for centuries. Professor Snape agreed to oversee my studies, though he repeatedly claims that the Headmaster made him. There!"  
  
The purple glow had vanished from the glass. "It's safe. I couldn't find that it's been spelled at all." She turned to Ron, "Your brothers must have really wanted Gryffindor to win this game. This stuff sells for thirty galleons a bottle."  
  
It was Neville's turn to look surprised. "Did you learn that in your independent study?"  
  
"Not exactly, but I figured that current pricing was relevant information to know, especially if I wish to pursue any of my work after Hogwarts. Now," she said, raising her wand, "sweet, flavoured rum like this is good at just about any temperature and with a number of mixers. I would recommend serving this particular variety straight up and warm." She held up the bottle. "Harry, do you want yours, hot, warm, room temperature, chilled, or on the rocks?"  
  
"Er- warm. Thanks Hermione."  
  
She nodded, and tapped her wand on a nearby pillow. It obligingly turned into a tiny but ornate Russian tea glass. She handed the steaming drink to Harry, handle first.  
  
When all of the boys had steaming glasses of Butter-Rum, she fixed herself a glass.  
  
Seamus caught her eye and raised his glass. "To the Quidditch Cup, for the fourth consecutive year, Hufflepuff willing," he pronounced solemnly.  
  
"Hear, hear!" chorused the rest, and they all drank.  
  
The Butter-Rum was even sweeter and smoother than Hermione remembered it. Of course, the last time she'd tasted it, Snape had dissolved a confiscated Limerick Lozenge in it. Since she hadn't recognized the odd flavour, she'd ended up speaking in limericks for several hours.  
  
Ron raised his glass. "To Draco Malfoy, long may he be scrubbing mud out of his hair!"  
  
"Hear, hear!"  
  
This gulp was not as sweet as the first, and carried with it the trace of fire that Hermione had come to know so well. "Do not rely on your clumsy sense of taste to identify the contents of a potion," Snape had admonished her during one of their first meetings. "The feeling in your throat and stomach are twice as likely to be correct, and thus are often your best defence against slow-acting poisons."  
  
Talk about gut feelings. Hermione hid a smile.  
  
Harry held his glass aloft. "To Fred and George, the founders of our feast!"  
  
"Hear, hear!"  
  
Hermione took a much smaller sip this time. She suspected the others did, too.  
  
Neville raised his hand, trembling slightly. "To Hermione Granger, for facing s-Snape and making sure we weren't all turned into hamsters"  
  
The other roared with laughter and drank enthusiastically. Hermione grinned at Neville and raised her own glass.  
  
"To Neville Longbottom, the best Slytherin-bashing beater the Gryffindor team has ever had the privilege of fielding!"  
  
Neville flushed with pleasure. "Well, if Dennis hadn't slammed the other bludger away from me, I never would have had a clean shot at Malfoy-"  
  
His protest was drowned out by another chorus of "Hear, hear!" and they all drained the remainder of their glasses.  
  
Ron grabbed the bottle and poured himself another drink. He passed it to Neville, who did the same. The bottle was still nearly half full when it reached Harry.  
  
Hermione sat back and grinned at her friends. She felt the Butter-Rum warming her belly. She knew that, though her own tolerance was significantly better than it had been at the end of the year, another glass drunk too quickly would put her over her personal limit, which meant she couldn't perform the sobering spell on herself until morning. She had no desire to ask Professor Snape for assistance well after midnight on a Sunday morning.  
  
Seamus returned her grin. "I still can't believe the Head Girl is getting pissed with the lot of us."  
  
Ron sprang to her defence. "Well, it's not like she never broke a rule in her life. She did tell off Trelawney in third year."  
  
"And she smacked Malfoy. Three times," added Neville.  
  
"And there was that time when she and Viktor Krum-" began Harry, with a wicked gleam in his eye.  
  
"Enough!" Hermione interrupted, tossing a pillow at Harry. "I'll have no authority left if you keep this up!"  
  
Seamus was giggling. "So you and Krum did sneak out to London last year. Unbelievable! What about the rumour that you to painted Mrs. Norris green before the Slytherin/Hufflepuff match?"  
  
"I can neither confirm nor deny that," replied Hermione, "and I can neither confirm nor deny the slanderous allegation that I gave Crabbe a bright red exoskeleton and pincer claws after he kicked my cat down the stairs."  
  
"Just as you can neither confirm nor deny that Gryffindor lost fifty points for it," commented Ron, taking another sip.  
  
"Only because Snape figured she was the only one clever enough to do it." Neville's cheeks and lips were decidedly darker than they had been, and his eyelids were lower, giving him a warm and sultry look.  
  
Hermione shook her head. Neville? Sultry? She mentally filed "horniness" in her list of physical reactions to different alcohols under "Butter-Rum." It was in a similar experiment with stout that she discovered that Professor Snape wasn't really all that bad looking. She'd left that particular detail out of her notebook. It's not like she was in danger of forgetting it.  
  
Ron misinterpreted her action. "Oh don't be modest, Hermione. Snape may be an evil git, but he's not stupid."  
  
"Yeah," added Seamus. "And if anyone else had been caught by McGonagall after sneaking to London with her boyfriend, she'd have been expelled."  
  
"Perhaps so," said Hermione, feeling her cheeks grow hot, "but it's not like it was a problem for much longer, was it?"  
  
This was met with a thoughtful, but not uncomfortable silence. Ron was the first to break it.  
  
"Hermione, how far did you get with Victor?"  
  
All the boys' eyes turned to her.  
  
Hermione was torn between affront for such a personal question and amusement of his choice of words. Not "how far did you go," but "how far did you get." She figured this distinction merited an answer of sorts.  
  
"We were together for over two years, Ron," she replied gently. "What do you think?"  
  
This silence was broken by Seamus's laughter.  
  
The others looked at him for explanation.  
  
"Don't you think it's funny," he said, between guffaws, "that the only non- virgin in the lot of us is the one with the best reputation?"  
  
Ron blushed down to the roots of his hair. "What makes you think that Harry and I are virgins? And Neville," he added belatedly.  
  
Seamus rolled his eyes, slowly. Hermione figured the Butter-Rum was slowing him down a bit. "Really, guys. I'm your roommate. The only person I've ever noticed being out all night is Dean. Neville and Ron snore, and Harry always makes funny noises in his sleep."  
  
Ron squeaked.  
  
"Never mind, Ron," said Hermione. "I don't see how that's funny. What is virginity, anyway? What does it matter?"  
  
"Easy for you to say," retorted Harry, "you've actually, well, done things."  
  
"It's not a big deal," she protested, "they've debunked every single myth about virginity affecting one's ability to do magic, approach unicorns, brew potions, everything. It doesn't mean anything, really."  
  
Neville gave an uncharacteristically harsh laugh. "That's not what we're on about, Hermione. We just want to have sex."  
  
She stared at them in shock. Identical looks of discomfort, embarrassment, and resolution graced the boys' faces. She couldn't stop herself.  
  
"With whom?" Her voice was incredulous.  
  
"Millicent Bulstrode," spat Neville, cheeks scarlet.  
  
The boys stared at Neville in unflattering disbelief. Hermione cleared her throat.  
  
"You don't understand," said Neville, eyes far away. "Remember when Crabbe was in the hospital wing after Hermione turned him into a crab and Mil played beater against Ravenclaw? She tore the sleeves off her robes, and her dark hair streamed out behind her. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She is so strong. The first time I saw her bash a bludger towards Ron I nearly wept for the beauty. Sorry, Ron. But she's amazing. When we're in a room together, even if it's the Great Hall, I feel her there. I can't pay attention to anything else- I don't want to pay attention to anything else. All that matters is being close to her."  
  
The others were staring at Neville, in horrified disbelief and awe.  
  
"I think know how you feel," said Seamus, breaking the spell Neville had cast. "Only it's Padma Patil for me. Sorry, Ron, but I came this close to hexing you when you got to take her to the Yule Ball fourth year. Imagine- Parvati's looks in someone clever!"  
  
Hermione stared at him in bewilderment. "Er, Seamus, if it's Padma you fancy, why did you date Parvati all fifth year?"  
  
His face was red. "I didn't have the nerve to ask Padma out, and I figured dating Parvati would be nearly as good and much more convenient."  
  
"Convenient?" Hermione practically screeched. "You dated your dream girl's identical twin for a year because she was more convenient?"  
  
Seamus had the grace to look humiliated. "I was a complete prat, I know."  
  
"And after the way she dumped you, nobody's ever going to believe you're interested in Padma for anything other than her resemblance to Parvati."  
  
Seamus miserably swirled his remaining Butter Rum around in his glass. "Don't you think I know that, Hermione? I sometimes partner with her in advanced Muggle Studies, and it's all I can do to focus on our practicals when all I want to do is bury my face in her neck and inhale. God, she smells incredible!"  
  
He sighed and took a sip of his drink. "How about you, Harry. Now that Alicia Spinnet's finally graduated, who does it for you?"  
  
Harry got a funny closed look on his face. "Nobody."  
  
"Sure, and I'm volunteering to referee the next Thunderer-Warrior match!" said Ron with a snort.  
  
"We can't possibly think you're a bigger prat than me, so what are you worried about?" Seamus grumbled.  
  
Harry looked up shyly through his fringe. "You'll hate me if I tell."  
  
They all protested.  
  
"Really?" He was encouraged by their solemn nods. "It's... a boy."  
  
Hermione giggled.  
  
Harry glared at her. "Thanks a lot, Hermione."  
  
"No, it's not that," she protested. "I think I figured it out last year and it's really weird to hear you say it."  
  
She smiled encouragingly. He took a deep breath. "Draco Malfoy."  
  
Seamus, Ron and Neville emitted a truly impressive variety of rude noises.  
  
"It's not that I don't despise him," said Harry, "I just think he's beautiful. I'd never go after him! He's awful- spoiled, irresponsible, obnoxious- but that doesn't stop me from thinking he's the most gorgeous thing on two legs. I hate that I think he's beautiful."  
  
Hermione patted his hand. "I think it's very brave of you to say so. I think that deep-down, you see what he could be, which I think is admirable."  
  
Ron cleared his throat. "Yeah. I mean, Harry, I think it's very big of you to call him anything but a stuck-up little sod."  
  
Harry looked askance at his friend. "So who is it for you?"  
  
Ron coloured even more deeply than Harry had. "Can't say."  
  
Neville flapped his hand at Ron. "I've admitted admiration for Mil to you all. Now spill!"  
  
Ron mumbled something.  
  
"What??" Harry sounded outraged.  
  
"Malfoy," repeated Ron, face flushing scarlet. "It's not that I don't like girls anymore, but I agree with everything Harry said," said Ron reluctantly. "And he knows just how to push my buttons, and it drives me near mad every time I speak to him."  
  
Harry and Ron met one another's eyes, and Hermione could tell they had just achieved a level of understanding far beyond her ability to fathom. She was rather glad it lay out of her realm of knowledge, actually.  
  
Seamus shook his head. "You're all for St. Mungos, the lot of you. Except for Hermione. Unless you fancy Draco Malfoy too."  
  
She laughed, giving the others permission to do so. "No, no, not Malfoy. My unrequited affections lie in another direction."  
  
"You sly thing," cried Ron, "you never said a word! Who is it?"  
  
To everyone's astonishment, Hermione blushed deeply.  
  
"You never told us anything!" said Harry.  
  
"Think, Harry!" she hissed. "I've never told you who I fancied before, why should I start now?"  
  
"Is it someone in Gryffindor?"  
  
"Is it someone in Slytherin?"  
  
"It's not me, is it?"  
  
Hermione held up her hands. "No, not exactly, and definitely not, Ron."  
  
Neville fixed her in a knowing stare. "No," he said, under his breath.  
  
The other three boys turned to him.  
  
"Well, who is it?" asked Seamus.  
  
Neville shook his head. "Hermione, how could you?"  
  
"I wasn't going to act on it, at least not 'til I've graduated."  
  
"Who is it?" chorused Harry and Ron.  
  
In for a penny... "Professor Snape," said Hermione and Neville in unison.  
  
Harry, Seamus, and Ron all yelled in disgust. Ron buried his face in a pillow. Harry's hands were clasped over his eyes. Neville looked as if he'd sucked on a lemon.  
  
"That's disgusting!"  
  
"Snape!?"  
  
"Imagine how it would feel to run your fingers through that greasy mop," said Seamus with relish.  
  
"You're braver than me, Hermione," said Neville, "but I think we already knew that."  
  
"How long have you fancied him?" demanded Ron.  
  
"Well it all happened so gradually," Hermione said, cowed by the outraged looks the boys were giving her. "I couldn't say exactly when. Maybe it was the first time I realized that he doesn't hate me. He's the same as he ever was, I think, but I just see him differently now."  
  
"But he treats all Gryffindors like shite, " said Seamus, bluntly.  
  
"Not in our private sessions," said Hermione earnestly. "He still makes fun of Gryffindors, but I don't mind it anymore. He's really very funny."  
  
"Funny?" Seamus practically shrieked. "This is the man who takes points off Gryffindor for sport!"  
  
"But there's more to him than that," she protested. "He's smart. Attentive to detail. And he's really quite handsome."  
  
Another roar of disapproval. Ron smashed his face into the pillow again, and the look on Harry's face lent him an uncanny resemblance to Narcissa Malfoy.  
  
"That's not fair," Hermione insisted. "Everyone except Neville thinks Bulstrode's a troll, and everyone except Ron and Harry think Malfoy's spotty wanker status far outweighs any physical charms. Why can't I be allowed to like Professor Snape?"  
  
They had no good response for this. Seamus took a healthy swig from his Butter-Rum before speaking.  
  
"Well, Hermione, I guess not everyone can be gifted with taste equivalent to mine. You're welcome to think Snape's handsome if you want. At least you can claim it was the booze talking tomorrow morning, anyway." He raised his glass. "Here's to the unattainable."  
  
"Hear, hear" was the reply, but it was much more resigned than enthusiastic. They all drank and were silent.  
  
Suddenly, Neville, who had been lying on his back, struggled into an upright position. "Why do they have to be unattainable?"  
  
Ron groaned, arm draped over his face. "Because we've all of us set our own sights way out of our respective leagues. Bulstrode would belt you if you asked her out, Malfoy would hex us, Padma and Parvati would both jinx Seamus, and Snape would expel Hermione after belting, hexing and jinxing her."  
  
"D'you think so?" asked Neville, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Are we so scared that we won't even try?"  
  
"It's not being scared exactly, Neville," said Hermione. "It's more having a healthy sense of self-preservation."  
  
Ron and Harry snorted, but Seamus frowned.  
  
"I think Neville's right," he said. "I could have asked Padma out at any time, but I haven't."  
  
"Yeah, well Padma's not in Slytherin," retorted Harry. "You don't have hundreds of years of rivalry going against you."  
  
Hermione and Ron nodded in agreement.  
  
"A feeble excuse," said Seamus, whose tongue seemed to have been loosened by the alcohol.  
  
"Are you calling us cowards?" asked Ron, voice dangerous.  
  
"I suppose I am," said Seamus with good humour. "Perhaps you chose to fall for Slytherins because you knew they were unattainable. I don't know. But what I do know is that you won't get anywhere if you don't try."  
  
"Easy for you to say," said Hermione. "You partner with the object of your affections twice a week for an hour and a half."  
  
"And you see yours alone two nights a week," said Harry, gloomily. "Since we dropped Potions last year, the only time Ron and I see Malfoy is during Care of Magical Creatures, meals, and quidditch matches."  
  
"So what?" said Neville, drawing their attention.  
  
"What do you mean, 'so what?'" demanded Ron. "What do you expect us to do?"  
  
"Make your own luck," said Neville, eyes hard, tongue slightly slurring. "I propose a toast. Or a pact. Or a what-have-you."  
  
They all raised their glasses hesitantly.  
  
"I think we all should all go after our loves," Neville pronounced with drunken eloquence. "And that the first person to succeed, with style, will be the Stud of Gryffindor, whose praises shall be sung by generations of Gryffindors for ages to come."  
  
"So mote it be," said Seamus with magnanimous ceremony, hiccuping.  
  
"So mote it be," echoed Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville.  
  
They drained their glasses.  
  
~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Enjoy? Encourage me! I am incorrigible, after all.  
  
Huge thanks to Dana, my beta-reader, who kept me from naming this "The Absinthe Minded Professor." 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Absinthe of Reason  
  
Author: Mundungus42  
  
Rating: R  
  
Disclaimer: I got plenty o' fanfic, but copyrights? Golly gee!  
  
Summary: Response to the WIKTT Gryffindor Stud challenge  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Hermione woke the next morning and rather wished she hadn't. Shutting her eyes again did nothing to placate her brain, which seemed to be staging a violent demonstration against her skull. The pounding was made worse by an odd tickling sensation in the back of her consciousness, as if she'd forgotten something important. She took inventory of her physical state, adding "gives horrendous hangovers" to her mental filing system for "Butter Rum," and cast a sobering spell on herself. A second casting downgraded her photophobia from unbearable to merely awful, so she pulled out her alcohol journal for Snape and began to write.  
  
June 24, 1998 11:48 pm to 1:30 am on 25 June  
  
Experience with Butter Rum in a social setting. First round drained quickly, led to revelations of a highly personal nature. Experienced heightened degree of alcohol induced sexual awareness. Compromised decision- making skills. Because all drank second round together, passed personal threshold. Hangover experience is unparalleled. Nausea, headache, blurred vision, dry mouth, photophobia. Took two sobering spells to have effect.  
  
Compromised decision-making skills.  
  
The sense of foreboding that until that moment had been cleverly disguised as hangover chose to manifest itself. The piece of knowledge that had been tickling the back of her brain burst forth into full-blown, panic-inducing splendour.  
  
The previous Friday, Hermione had been reading up on ritual imbibing at weddings and stumbled across the name of a monograph, called "In Vino Veritas," in a footnote. From the context in which the monograph was mentioned, she had concluded that its subject was the fates that befell witches and wizards who had not followed through on oaths made under the influence of alcohol.  
  
Oh hell.  
  
She hurriedly threw her blue Weasley jumper over her head. The name of an article wasn't much to go on, but if she didn't know where to look for more information on the subject, she wasn't worthy of the epithet bookworm.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Hermione propped her elbows on the enormous book in front of her, rested her still somewhat sensitive head in her hands and took a deep, shuddering breath.  
  
As the afternoon wore into evening, Hermione had become more and more convinced that the information she was looking for did not exist. The Hogwarts Library was second to none, but it was to no avail; not a single book offered advice on how to get out of an alcohol-bound ceremonial vow, which was, she had concluded, exactly what she and the boys had made the previous evening. A number of references had conflicting information on the essential elements of a drinking "ceremony," mostly niggling about how drunk the wizard had to be, but they all agreed that celebration and strong alcohol were necessary, and that making frivolous oaths while under the influence was a very bad idea. Since the magic involved was ancient and functioned in unpredictable ways, the only way she could get out of it was to fulfil the oath or accept the consequences for breaking it. The latter was hardly advisable.  
  
In 1677, Bergamot the Barmy refused to answer to an oath he'd made at a cousin's wedding. He had been driven mad by constant visions of the very dragon he'd sworn to slay. And in 1893, Wasps seeker Augusta Primus boasted that she could beat the Arrows seeker at one-on-one Quidditch during a post- match pub crawl, but then refused to play. She broke her neck in a broomstick accident a year later. Analytically, it was all circumstantial evidence, but the theory of alcohol's binding nature was consistent with its historical ceremonial use, not to mention every potion she had studied with Professor Snape.  
  
Hermione slammed the book shut. Damn it all, the boys should've known better! They'd grown up in the magical world, for heaven's sake - well, except Harry. Then again, she should have known better, too. She was studying the dratted substance, after all. To hell with being the Stud of Gryffindor. She'd be lucky to get through this with all higher brain functions intact.  
  
She stared out the window where a gibbous moon was rising over the Forbidden Forest. She and the boys had agreed to "go after" their loves. Worse, they had bound themselves to that course of action when they drank to Neville's challenge.  
  
She began stacking the books on the reshelving cart with a bit more force than necessary, causing the binding of one particularly old volume to rip. She was instantly sorry. One reparo charm later, the book was in better shape than it had been before her rough handling. She sighed, sound echoing off the stone walls of the deserted library.  
  
If only the circumstances had been different. She hadn't lied to the boys; she had planned to pursue Snape, but after graduation and on her own terms. But thanks to Fred and George's Butter Rum and her sexually frustrated housemates, she was bound, and she certainly did not want to risk her sanity and well-being.  
  
There was nothing to be done. Starting now, her primary objective was no longer her NEWTs. What good would studying do her if she went mad? Her new focus was seducing her professor.  
  
Before this really had a chance to penetrate, she realized that it was suppertime and that she still had three essays to write. They were due the following month, but with her independent study and the Snape project to research, she would have to budget her time wisely. She briefly considered warning the boys about reneging on their promise, but figured their egos would be sufficient incentive.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
When Hermione brought her easily digestible sweetened porridge and hot tea to the table, she was relieved to see that all of her fellow potential Gryffindor studs were equally bleary-eyed, but definitely up to something. Seamus and Neville were in deep conversation, while Harry and Ron were arguing quietly at the foot of the table, at least three empty chairs away from the rest of the Gryffindors. Ron's ears were bright red, and Harry looked as if he was close to dumping a tureen of pea soup on Ron's head. All of them seemed engrossed in their own discussions, so she began to read her borrowed copy of "The Unabridged and Exhaustive Compendium of Hogwarts Rules, Regulations, Standards, Weights, Measures and Timetables," volume twenty-three, and began discreetly thumbing through the index for anything on the subject of student-teacher fraternization.  
  
After her less than flavourful or informative supper, Hermione found herself irresistibly drawn to the restricted section. On the very first night of exploring her Head Girl privileges, she had discovered that the Restricted Section housed not only arcane magical subjects, but also books that Madame Pince had deemed a distraction to or inappropriate for younger students.  
  
Since all the books on courtship in the library's regular collection were at least three decades, or in some cases three centuries, out of date, her access to the explicit texts in the restricted section proved invaluable.  
  
Throughout the year, Hermione had developed a taste for reading up on the social history Binns didn't cover in his class. Her favourites were richly illuminated texts from 14th century Italy. She suspected a number of the firsties would wet themselves if they glimpsed the expanses of entwined human flesh in the marginalia. Though she appreciated the pictures on an aesthetic level, they didn't interest her particularly. The stories, on the other hand, sometimes made her wonder if she were any better than Eloise Midgen, who had had at least ten paperback romances confiscated for reading them in class. Hermione had devoured all flavors of romantic artifacts, from Lady Birdy's 1291 account of her greatly anticipated wedding night and Plato's ode to male beauty.  
  
She wandered over to her favourite shelves, on which were housed all manner of raunchy, ribald, and risqué accounts, organized chronologically. She was strongly tempted to re-read Candide- not the expurgated, bowdlerized version the Muggles read, but the violent, unashamedly sexual version that graced the shelves of the restricted section. But she had already memorized Cunegonde's shrewd seduction of the Grand Inquisitor of Lisbon and all the other parts that she felt were particularly delicious mixes of intellect and sensuality.  
  
Skimming the shelves with a practiced eye, she gathered a stack of promising looking titles. "What a Piece of Work is Man" by Sal Oume, an 19th Century polyandrist, "l'Escrime e l'Amour" by La Maupin, and a number of biographies on history's most famous beauties including Hsi Shi and Cleopatra.  
  
Long past curfew, Hermione decided that she was sufficiently educated on the subject of love. However, she still wasn't quite sure how to apply this knowledge to her situation. Fortunately, there were a number of common threads that ran through each narrative- mainly preparation, control, and confidence. Since she felt that she had a fair grasp on the first two, it seemed that confidence was the key.  
  
Hermione began moving her books to the reshelving stack and caught a glance of herself reflected in the window glass. She was reasonably pleased with her own face and body- everything seemed to function properly. But, she thought as she ran a hand regretfully through her unruly hair, there was certainly room for improvement on the sexiness front.  
  
She began gathering her notes, eyes touching briefly on some of the ideas she had scribbled down. Cleopatra suggested melting a cone of scented wax on one's head to prepare herself to meet with a lover or important politician, and Cliodna recommended a paste of potato and black cat hair applied to the breasts the night before to increase their attractiveness, but Hermione doubted those solutions would be of much use to her.  
  
Still, she thought as she closed the heavy doors behind her, she had to start somewhere, no matter how close to the bottom.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"You want us to do what?" screeched Lavender.  
  
"So you can do what?" cried Parvati.  
  
Hermione had anticipated this reaction and shrugged noncommittally. "I think you heard me the first time. Are you up for it?"  
  
The girls traded looks.  
  
"Maybe," said Parvati reluctantly, "but I don't know why you think we'll be any help to you."  
  
"Because you know what men look for, " said Hermione. "You know about style. You know how to make someone look good."  
  
Parvati looked unconvinced, but Lavendar smiled. "Well, that's nice," she said. "But I think you're overestimating our skills.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Well," Lavendar said with a shy smile, "Where do you think we learned it all?"  
  
Guessing games. Fortunately, her voice didn't betray her annoyance. "I haven't any idea. Where?"  
  
"Pansy Parkinson," they chorused.  
  
Hermione felt another headache coming on. "OK, er- thanks. Just promise you won't tell anyone else about this, especially not the Gryffindor Stud part?"  
  
The girls looked at one another before answering.  
  
"We'll promise," said Parvati, "if you tell us who else was involved and who they promised to ask out."  
  
"How about if I just tell you who else is in the running for Gryffindor Stud?"  
  
Lavender caught Parvati's eye briefly, and they nodded in unison.  
  
"It's Me, Harry, Ron, Neville, and Seamus."  
  
At the mention of Seamus's name, the girls dissolved into giggles. That was not a good sign.  
  
Hermione glared sternly at them. "You promised not to tell anyone. You can't mention the pact and you can't mention who's involved. Any blabbing might make the contest unfair." Or more unfair, she added silently, noting that none of the others had to seduce a teacher.  
  
"We promise," said Parvati and Lavender solemnly, fingers crossed resolutely behind their backs.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
By the time Pansy Parkinson had stopped laughing, Hermione was just about ready to curse her.  
  
"So are you going to help me, or not?"  
  
This sent Pansy off into further whoops of mirth. "Stud of Gryffindor?" she was in danger of falling on the floor. "Oh, Lord, I may split something."  
  
"If you don't shut up, it'll be your head," snapped Hermione, pushed to the edge of her patience. "I've got into this mess and I need you to help me get out of it. I'll do almost anything you ask."  
  
"The Gryffindor know-it-all needs my help," she said, recovering somewhat. "What's in it for me?"  
  
Hermione thought of Ron and Harry. "I can help you embarrass Draco Malfoy."  
  
Pansy's eyes were guarded. "Why should I care about Draco Malfoy?"  
  
"Because he treats you as if you're not fit to wipe his boots. You think nobody notices?"  
  
"If you want my help, mudblood, you're going about it the wrong way." She turned to leave, but Hermione sensed she was still listening.  
  
"He's in love with a Gryffindor," she said, praying her instincts were as good as she thought they were.  
  
Pansy turned and looked her in the eye. "If you're lying, you'll regret it."  
  
"I know. I haven't anything to lose. I'm begging you. Help me."  
  
Pansy gazed at her perfect fingernails. Hermione noticed that her hands were trembling slightly.  
  
"You will proofread all of my essays for the rest of the year and you will oversee my study for the NEWTs," said Pansy. "You will also tell me the name of the Gryffindor Draco likes."  
  
Game. Set. Match! "I will proofread your essays and help you study. I will also brew you a cauldron full of Psyche Potion. But I will not tell you the Gryffindor's name."  
  
Pansy's nostrils flared. Psyche Potion was the second strongest truth potion after Veritaserum, but it was not as strictly controlled by the Ministry of Magic. For someone like Pansy, whose knowledge of other people's desires determined her place in the pecking order, Psyche Potion was a powerful incentive.  
  
"You are in no position to make demands," said Pansy, a little too quickly. "But I accept your offer."  
  
Hermione clasped the extended hand with a sigh of relief. Psyche Potion was one that contained alcoholic components, and therefore one whose brewing Professor Snape would oversee with very few questions.  
  
"Thank you, Parkinson."  
  
"The pleasure is all yours, Granger. First things first. What on earth do you use on your hair?"  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
That Tuesday when Hermione walked into Potions, there was something different. Pansy smiled to herself. With a little more subtle polishing, Granger could be almost promising.  
  
Nobody noticed the individual elements- her skirt was two inches shorter than regulation, and the heels on her shoes an inch and a half higher. The vee of her school jumper was lower, and the top button on her shirt was undone, exposing a few inches of flesh at her throat. Her curls tumbled, rather than frizzed, and a subtly applied cosmetic spell made her cheeks and lips a shade darker, and her eyelids more pronounced.  
  
However, anyone who noticed Hermione's appearance forgot abruptly when Snape swooped into the classroom with an overpowering aura of menace. Hermione threw her shoulders back- Pansy was trying to improve her posture- but it was soon forgotten when the actual brewing began.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
At her tutorial that evening, Hermione was no longer thinking about the advice Pansy had given her. She was exhausted, barely able to stir the glop that was first stage of the Psyche Potion. She was beginning to wonder if perhaps Pansy might have settled for a less labour-intensive potion.  
  
Professor Snape appeared at her shoulder. "I see nothing immediately wrong, " he admitted with a scornful twist of his lip. "But we won't know until the potion has been tested. Anything that went wrong in the first stage will manifest itself in use, but no earlier."  
  
"That's why I chose this potion, sir. Occasionally I am uncertain in my potions-brewing skills, and this potion is an excellent confidence- builder."  
  
Snape snorted derisively. "Only if it is made correctly, which I sincerely doubt anyone with less than ten years of potions study can do."  
  
Hermione smiled, finding the buried compliment in his pessimistic humour. "Thank you for your vote of confidence, sir. I will do my best to live up to it."  
  
He looked at her suspiciously. "I advise you to watch your mouth, Miss Granger. I only suffer your presence as a special favour to the Headmaster. Even he cannot reinstate you if you seriously displease me, and you are in danger of doing so now."  
  
"No disrespect meant, sir. I apologise," she said hastily. "I assumed that if you thought the potion beyond my ability you would have said so when I expressed a desire to brew it.  
  
"I feel that some lessons are best learned the hard way."  
  
She wasn't quite sure how to respond, so she stared at the surface of her potion. "The instructions say that the potion must simmer for twelve hours, which means that I must tend to it at the beginning of my Transfiguration lesson. May I have a pass to give to Professor McGonagall?"  
  
He made a sound of annoyance. "That will not be necessary, Granger. As a Potions Master, I am more than capable of removing a cauldron from heat."  
  
She smiled impishly. "I have every confidence in you, sir."  
  
"Out, Granger!" he barked. "And don't come back if you know what's good for you!"  
  
Grinning widely, she ran out the door.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
By the next potions class, the boys' eyes lingered on Hermione for a few moments before they returned to staring at the wall. Hermione felt acutely self-conscious.  
  
When they met in the loo before class, Pansy had shortened her skirt another inch and made the heels of her shoes even higher. Hermione had protested the expanse of leg, but Pansy insisted that it was necessary. She also shrunk Hermione's school jumper so that it clung tightly to her breasts and waist. Apart from the treatment she'd administered two days before, Pansy left her hair alone. She called it an identifying trait- something that set Hermione apart.  
  
The make-up charms were not darker, but the contrasts were more pronounced. Hermione liked the makeup, but hated the changes to her clothes. She didn't feel sexy. She felt ridiculous, and complained as much to Pansy.  
  
"You obviously don't know the least bit about Slytherin men," she said, scornfully.  
  
"If I thought I did, you don't think I'd submit to this humiliation?" She gestured to her skirt, which now hit her mid-thigh. "It's not like he notices it anyway."  
  
"That's where you're wrong. The trick to snaring a Slytherin male is contradiction," said Pansy. "The complex nature of the Slytherin is drawn to opposites. They expect you to put forth an effort to look good, but shun you if it looks like you put too much effort into it. You're a goody-two- shoes bookworm, and that's why the stiletto Mary Janes and a scandalously short skirt work for you. Do you think Parvati Patil could get away with what you're wearing now?"  
  
Hermione smirked, remembering an occasion in which Professor McGonagall had lengthened Parvati's skirt in Transfiguration after a tart comment about the usefulness of augmenting spells.  
  
"I thought so," said Pansy smugly. "If I were you, I'd wear impressive undergarments to your next independent study meeting. You may need them."  
  
"Impressive undergarments?" Hermione spat. "What's the use of those lacy little scraps-"  
  
"Honestly, woman, have you no experience with seduction?" a deep voice came from the loo entrance. Millicent Bulstrode lumbered into view.  
  
"Granger's attempting seduction without impressive undergarments," Pansy said, nastily.  
  
Millicent looked at her in amazement. "Not even a matching knickers and bra set?"  
  
"Well, it all matches," said Hermione huffily. "It's undyed brushed cotton. Very comfortable."  
  
Pansy and Millicent burst out laughing.  
  
"Oh, Granger," said Millicent. "Have you got a lot to learn." She undid the top buttons of her blouse, exposing an expanse of iridescent silk that seemed to ripple of its own accord.  
  
Oh Neville, Hermione thought, If only you were a fly on this wall...  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Author's Note: Huge thanks to my beta readers Dana and Jeff! Also, know that I am totally floored by all the positive feedback y'all have given me. I'll try to keep it up with the weekly updates and hope that this chapter and the next ones satisfy your expectations. Ooo I absolutely love challenges!  
  
*blows kisses in a non-theatrical way*  
  
You guys are the best! 


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Absinthe of Reason  
  
Author: Mundungus42  
  
Rating: R (getting there...)  
  
Disclaimer: I do not sail on the S. S. Ownership. I occasionally canoe, though.  
  
Summary: Response to the WIKTT Gryffindor Stud challenge  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Thursday evening at supper, Hermione's posture was more erect than usual, and a close observer might have noticed a determined glint in her eye to match the becoming flush in her cheek. As it was, the only difference her mates noticed was that the toad-in-the-hole was decidedly skimpy on sausages. She had to admit, sausages were a safe topic of conversation.  
  
Hermione hadn't spoken about the Stud of Gryffindor title at length with any of the boys since that fateful night, which was probably for the best. Harry and Ron still weren't speaking to each other, and this was one fight she had no desire to mediate. Still, it hadn't been that difficult to avoid them. Between homework, her potions lessons, NEWTs study, and Quidditch, the only times she saw any of her fellow Gryffindor Stud hopefuls were over meals. However, the proximity of everyone's objects of affection and the danger of being overheard deterred any in-depth group discussion. When Hermione attempted to exchange a significant look at Seamus, he looked pointedly at Parvati and shook his head.  
  
Judging by the half-stifled giggle Lavender and Parvati shared, Hermione figured Padma already knew about Seamus's participation in the Stud of Gryffindor competition. She would have tried to warn Seamus, but Harry and Ron had started kicking one another under the table. An ill-placed kick from Harry elicited a sharp "Hey!" from Dean, and soon the entire table had become embroiled in a kicking battle. Sensing Professor McGonagall's approach, Hermione seized the opportunity to leave for her lesson with Snape.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Hermione strode into the potions classroom with the air of confidence that only really fantastic underwear can lend. Even Snape seemed to notice.  
  
"There's no need to look so cheerful, Miss Granger," he said. "You've got a long, hard slog ahead of you this evening. Psyche Potion requires constant stirring for an hour after you add the liqueur, and it will be no thinner than it was when you last saw it."  
  
"It's not cheer exactly, sir, " she replied, "more like renewed vigour and excitement to see this potion through."  
  
"Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek. If you can't say anything sensible, I suggest that you remain silent."  
  
"Yessir," she replied, undaunted.  
  
He scowled at her. "I don't suppose, in your fit of good humour, that you had the opportunity to read the Vrabinsky book that I assigned for next week?"  
  
"Of course, I did, sir."  
  
"Then I you should have no problem identifying the ingredients in my cabinet and making a vodka martini."  
  
"I thought you didn't like martinis, sir."  
  
"I don't. This is for use in your potion, which you'd have known if you'd read Leuwenhoek's monograph on the effects of apple vodka on the Psyche Potion that was referenced in the Vrabinsky book."  
  
"I tried to read it, sir, but the article is in Dutch and I couldn't find a translation of it anywhere."  
  
"You obviously weren't looking or thinking hard enough," he said, without any real venom. "The Vrabinsky book came from my personal library. An English translation of the Leuwenhoek is also in my possession. The next time you require a text that is not in the library, speak with me before assuming it is unavailable to you."  
  
He was giving her access to his personal library! "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."  
  
He frowned. "Now, make the martini and get to work. When the clock strikes, you may add the final ingredients. The martini is to be poured steadily over the surface when the potion is finished. Do not stir. When you have bottled the potion, I will give you the Leuwenhoek monograph. I also wish to speak with you about a recent entry in your notebook."  
  
Hermione gulped. Had he figured it out? The prospect sent a thrill of fear through her, but she ignored it as best she could. She managed to squeak, "Of course, Professor Snape."  
  
He abruptly returned his grading without responding. Bastard, she thought fondly, spearing an olive.  
  
True to what Snape had said, the next hour was pure physical torture. The potion was approximately the consistency of pitch, and after a few minutes Hermione's muscles were crying out in protest. She had removed her robe and pushed the sleeves of her blouse up as far as they would go, but she was still bathed in sweat. The underwear Pansy and Millicent had designed for her was evidently not intended for physical labor. The bustier was stifling and its steel ribs nipped her hip if she changed her stirring position. The balls of her feet throbbingly protested the height of her heels, and the sweatier her body became, the more her stockings itched.  
  
When, after a small eternity, the clock on Professor Snape's table chimed, Hermione sighed in relief. She quickly consulted her notes and added the eight ounces of chocolate liqueur she had brought, feverfew, and pomegranate pulp and stirred thrice. The potion turned a rippling grass green and ceased bubbling. Consulting her notes for the last time to double- check her steps, she squared her shoulders. It was ready for the martini.  
  
Spiculum argentum, the silver drink. Vodka was vodka, no matter what organic substance it was distilled from - apple, potato, rye, anything. As long as it was filtered through birch charcoal, it was potions grade. The liquid sparkled in the torchlight as she poured it over her potion. The cauldron hissed and emitted a dense grey fog that spread over the floor of the classroom. As suddenly as it had started, the hissing sound ceased, and the olive that had been in the martini popped from the surface of the potion and sailed across the room. It landed with a wet thud on Snape's grading.  
  
He flicked the olive to the floor without looking at her.  
  
She extinguished the fire under the cauldron and filled a small flask for Snape's inspection, as she always did. Usually, she vanished the remainder of the potion and returned the cauldron to the pile in the back of the classroom, but this evening she shrank the cauldron, stoppered it, and slipped it into her book satchel. Hoping he hadn't been paying close attention to her actions, she steeled herself and approached his desk.  
  
He still did not look up from his papers, and spoke irritably. "Well, what are you waiting for? Test your potion."  
  
Hermione swallowed nervously. What if it didn't work? What if it did work?  
  
"Some time tonight, if you don't mind, Miss Granger?"  
  
She tapped the flask and raised the now-cool potion to her lips. It tasted sweet and rich. No wonder it was so dangerous; it could pass for an expensive mixed drink. Snape was still staring at her. She met his gaze resolutely.  
  
"How do you feel?"  
  
"Exceedingly well, thank you."  
  
"When was the last time you had a bowel movement?"  
  
Colour sprang to her cheeks, but the answer was out of her mouth before she had a chance to process the question. "Right before dinner."  
  
Snape nodded. "The potion appears to be correct. You may go." He returned to his grading.  
  
Her mind was a whirl of possibility. Logically, Snape would have to believe her if she declared her feelings now- she was under a truth potion. Hermione would have been fascinated by how the potion pitted her desire to be near him against her better impulse to flee, but there were too many things at stake. Still, to her surprise, she found herself speaking.  
  
"You promised to give me the Leuwenhoek monograph, sir."  
  
He grunted in a vaguely assenting way, and pushed a yellowing manuscript towards her.  
  
She cleared her throat. "You also wished to speak with me about an entry in my journal."  
  
He glared at her. "What?"  
  
"You wanted to ask about an entry in my journal."  
  
"Oh yes, what was it?"  
  
Apparently the potion made no distinction between direct and rhetorical questions, since she promptly answered, "I imagine you wish to ask me about the nature of the highly personal disclosures and judgment lapses that occurred when I drank Butter-Rum."  
  
His thin lips curved around a sharklike grin. "I had actually wished to ask about your hangover, since you have been so assiduous in avoiding them. But I plan to enjoy any highly personal disclosures and judgment lapses you wish to report."  
  
Fortunately, this was not a direct question, so Hermione was not compelled to answer. She started for the door.  
  
"Miss Granger," he called, cruel grin spreading still wider. "You are not dismissed. Tell me, did Potter steal boomslang skin from me in your second year?"  
  
She almost smiled in relief, but the ground was much too dangerous. "No, sir."  
  
He looked disappointed, but persevered. "Did Mr. Potter steal gillyweed from my office in your fourth year?"  
  
"No sir, he did not," she answered promptly.  
  
"Well then, was Mr. Potter involved in the highly personal disclosures of the Butter-Rum incident?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"He made one and heard mine in return, as did the rest of the boys."  
  
"Who else?"  
  
"Finnegan, Longbottom, and Ron Weasley." Oh God, this was not going well. Snape would never give her a chance if he knew the impetus for her declaration.  
  
"And what did these disclosures involve?"  
  
She wanted to run out of his office, but there was no knowing who might hear spill the tawdry tale of Harry's crush on Draco Malfoy. At least she knew Snape could keep a secret. Of course, if he didn't wish to keep it a secret-best not to pursue that line of thought. Her jaw was beginning to hurt from resisting the potion.  
  
"Answer me, Miss Granger."  
  
"They all involved unrequited love, sir," she said at last.  
  
"I see," said Snape, steepling his fingers greedily under his nose. "And who were the objects of these disclosures?"  
  
"Millicent Bulstrode, Padma Patil, Draco Malfoy, and yourself, sir." Hermione's cheeks were burning, but she met his eye.  
  
His eyes narrowed. "I do not find this funny, Miss Granger."  
  
She shrugged, tears of humiliation stinging her eyes.  
  
"So am I to believe that you're dressing like this to impress Draco Malfoy? I thought you possessed a higher degree of subtlety, Miss Granger."  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"No? What do you mean?"  
  
"You shouldn't believe I dressed like this for Malfoy, sir."  
  
"Then is it Miss Patil or Miss Bulstrode who is the object of your affections?"  
  
"Neither, sir."  
  
Surprise was clearly etched on his features before he covered it with a fierce scowl. "You are dismissed, Miss Granger."  
  
She sagged with relief and started toward the door.  
  
"One more question, Miss Granger."  
  
She turned to face him miserably.  
  
"Why were you in such a good mood when you arrived this evening?"  
  
She wanted to bite her tongue, but the reply was already out. "Because I'm wearing a gorgeous bustier and matching garter belt, sir, and they're spelled so that only you can remove them."  
  
She clapped her hand over her mouth and bolted out the door before he could ask any more questions.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
When she returned to Gryffindor tower, she found all of the boys in their circle by the fire, looking as depressed as she felt. At least Harry and Ron appeared to reached a relative detente; they were sitting next to one another without exchanging looks of palpable enmity. Neville sported a colourful black eye. She joined them, bustier bunching uncomfortably as she sat on the floor.  
  
"What happened to all of you?"  
  
"We've all got detention for a week for starting a fight at dinner," said Seamus. "Then we all tried to use our last night of freedom to advance our Gryffindor Stud efforts."  
  
"I take it that nobody is claiming the Stud of Gryffindor prize yet," she commented.  
  
"Are we bad-looking or something?" Seamus inquired.  
  
"Not at all," replied Hermione automatically, and grimaced.  
  
"What's wrong with you?" grumbled Ron.  
  
"Snape made me test a truth potion tonight."  
  
The boys looked at her with interest.  
  
"So you told him?" Harry wanted to know.  
  
"In as many words."  
  
Neville regarded her through his one good eye. "What exactly did you say?"  
  
Flushing furiously, she repeated her comment about the charmed underwear.  
  
To her chagrin, the boys burst out laughing.  
  
"That is the best pickup line I've heard in ages," said Ron.  
  
"It wasn't a pickup line," said Hermione tartly, "It's the truth."  
  
Seamus whistled through his teeth. "Did you come up with the underwear idea on your own?"  
  
"No, the underwear was Pansy Parkinson's idea, and the spell was Millicent Bulstrode's."  
  
Fortunately, Neville couldn't fall off the floor, though he made a valiant effort.  
  
"Mil knows lingerie charms?"  
  
"She and Pansy were most knowledgeable on the subject, for all the good it's done me," she said crossly, "and I still have to proofread Pansy's essays, help her with the NEWTs, and give her this cauldron of truth potion." The potion sloshed as she set the tiny cauldron down in the middle of their circle.  
  
Harry stared at it moodily. "Too bad I can't force-feed Malfoy some of this to find out if he's interested in me. Or Ron," he added belatedly.  
  
"Or if Mil could see me take some. She thought I was making fun of her," said Neville, fingering his tender eye.  
  
"Me too," said Seamus glumly. "I know Padma has the wrong idea, because every time I tried to talk to her, she walks off with her nose in the air. When I finally cornered her tonight, she cast a full body bind on me before I could say anything. I wish there was a way to let her know that I've always been interested in her. But with Parvati giggling all over the place, it's a bit difficult."  
  
Hermione looked at her friends. "You're not serious about using a truth potion, are you? Don't you realize all the things that could go wrong?"  
  
"I don't care."  
  
They all turned to look at Neville.  
  
"Timidity is what got us all into this. It's certainly not going to get us out of it. Why can't Harry and Ron dose Malfoy? Why can't Seamus dose himself in front of Padma?"  
  
Ron's and Harry's jaws fell open simultaneously. Seamus snorted.  
  
"After Hermione made an ass of herself with Snape, not bloody likely!"  
  
A thought occurred to Hermione. "But some girls like boys to make asses of themselves."  
  
Harry grinned. "I know I'd be touched if Malfoy made an ass of himself for me. Or Ron."  
  
"We'd have to be careful," Seamus warned.  
  
Ron met Harry's eye for the first time that week. "It won't be that hard to get Malfoy alone in a room, especially if it's a combined effort."  
  
Seamus was starting to get excited. "She'll have to believe that I loved her first!"  
  
An idea was coalescing in Hermione's brain. She chose her words carefully. "Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? Think of your deepest, darkest, or most disgusting secrets. Are you prepared to share them with someone you barely know just because you are attracted to them? Because you can't hide anything when you're under a truth potion. Are you prepared to risk that, just to be the Stud of Gryffindor?"  
  
"It's worth a lot more to me than some stupid bet," said Neville.  
  
The others nodded resolutely, though Ron was a fraction of a second behind the others.  
  
Hermione's smile rivaled Snape's for sharklike intensity. "Then by all means, let's get to work."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Hermione left breakfast early the next day. She had a potion to deliver. Fortunately, Pansy didn't seem to notice that the cauldron was not as full as it should have been.  
  
"Does it work?"  
  
"Of course it does."  
  
"If I find you've pulled a fast one Granger, I'll tell the whole school why you wanted my help."  
  
She gave Pansy a withering look. "It hardly matters now that Snape knows, does it?"  
  
"Ooh, how did he like the garter belt?"  
  
"He didn't see it."  
  
"WHAT?" Millicent had entered the toilet as silently as she had before. Hermione was hard-pressed to keep her wand in her pocket after seeing the number she had done on Neville's face. At least Millicent's knuckles were raw and painful-looking.  
  
"You scarpered? I never figured you for a coward, Granger," said Pansy disdainfully.  
  
"It wasn't my fault," Hermione protested. "He had me under the truth potion- "  
  
"I should have known he'd be into that," remarked Pansy.  
  
Hermione gave her a dirty look. "He had me under the second-most-powerful truth potion in the world and all he did was ask me questions about Harry. He wasn't the least bit interested in me. But I had to tell him about the underwear, and I felt like such a complete idiot that I couldn't face him."  
  
"Let me get this straight," said Millicent, "he asked you about your underwear while you were under a truth potion, and you still ran away?"  
  
"No!" Hermione said, exasperated. "He asked me why I was so cheerful when I came in, and I told him."  
  
"Well," said Pansy with a nasty smile. "I hope you patch things up soon, because that underwear is going to start to smell bad after a couple of days. I don't know if I'll be able to concentrate on my NEWTs study if you reek. Thanks for the potion, Granger. Since I know you won't be otherwise occupied, expect our first study session to be tomorrow night. Ta ta!"  
  
Millicent chortled, sounding to Hermione's ears rather like a clogged drain, and the Slytherins left the loo. Locking herself in a stall and hitching up her shortened skirt, Hermione performed a powerful unlocking charm on her garter belt. It didn't budge. Panicking slightly, she tried all of the unlocking and releasing spells she could think of. She finally tried to rip the silk with the steel ribs of the bustier. None of it worked.  
  
Glancing at her watch, she realized she'd be late for potions if she didn't leave immediately. She cast an augmenting charm on her brief skirt and jumper, returned her shoes to normal, and entered the potions classroom with her head held high.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The first thing she noticed was that Malfoy and Millicent were not in attendance. Before she had a chance to process this information, Snape had swept into her field of vision and deducted five points from Gryffindor for gaping like an imbecile. Pansy snickered to herself, but refrained from the usual exaggerated faces and gesturing she reserved for making fun of Hermione.  
  
Perhaps something good would come from this whole fiasco after all.  
  
When Snape had written the directions for the day's potion on the board and split the students up into pairs, Hermione found herself working with Blaise Zabini.  
  
"So where are Malfoy and Bulstrode today?" she asked him casually as they companionably chopped roasted newt tails side by side.  
  
Zabini regarded her out of the corner of his eye. " I don't know where Mil is, but I figured you'd know about Malfoy, seeing as it was your potion that did it."  
  
She figured he was guessing. "I don't know what you mean," she replied smoothly. "What happened?"  
  
"Someone got a house elf to slip truth potion into Malfoy's pumpkin juice this morning," said Blaise, watching Hermione carefully for her reaction.  
  
She stifled her guffaw just in time.  
  
Blaise shrugged and returned to chopping. "So you didn't do it, but you know who did?"  
  
"I have a fair idea. So he's up in the hospital wing until it wears off?"  
  
"Along with Potter and Weasley, yeah."  
  
"What happened to Harry and Ron?"  
  
"Someone put truth potion in their drinks as well."  
  
"I see," said Hermione, inwardly applauding Harry and Ron's resourcefulness in covering their tracks.  
  
They finished their potion with no major mishaps. True to form, Zabini received ten points to Slytherin for his work. She lost five for getting in Zaibini's way.  
  
"You are dismissed," announced Snape, once he had collected their samples for testing. "Miss Granger, a word, if you please?"  
  
Pansy shot her a wink as she and the rest of the class filed out the door.  
  
Snape gestured with his wand and locked the classroom door. She stood before his desk. She almost wished he were grading papers again. The intense look he was giving her made her insides tingle most distractingly.  
  
"You have a great deal to explain, Miss Granger," he growled. "A surprising report reached me shortly before class. Care to guess what it was?"  
  
Hermione shook her head.  
  
"Apparently, one of my students and two of your friends have been given large doses of a potion that bears a remarkable similarity to the effects of Psyche Potion."  
  
"Zabini told me, sir."  
  
Snape slammed his hand down on his desk. "Do not trifle with me, Miss Granger! I did not agree to oversee your studies to see them used in puerile pranks on other students. Do not insult my intelligence by protesting that you had nothing to do with it. I am seriously displeased with you. You have one minute to convince me not to cancel your independent study forthwith and give you a failing grade."  
  
She swallowed. "I agree that it must have been my potion that was given to Harry, Ron and Malfoy, but I did not dose them, nor do I know who did." This was perfectly true. It was only circumstantial evidence that one of Hogwarts house elves was particularly devoted to Harry.  
  
His eyes narrowed. "To whom did you give it?"  
  
"I believe you will find the cauldron of Psyche Potion in the possession of Pansy Parkinson, sir." Never mind that she received it about ten minutes before class, she added silently.  
  
Bright red spots appeared on Snape's cheeks. "Twenty points from Gryffindor, for such an unbelievable lie. Why should you give it to Miss Parkinson?"  
  
"She gave me clothing, hair and makeup help, sir. You should know she doesn't do anything for free."  
  
He stared at her for a moment, then to her surprise, sighed heavily and began massaging his eyelids. "You made an excellent choice for a bribe. I am embarrassed to admit that I did not see it coming. What else did you have to promise her?"  
  
She could have fainted with relief. "I have to correct her essays for the rest of the year and help her study for the NEWTs."  
  
"She drove a hard bargain. May I ask why you were so desperate to secure her assistance?"  
  
She felt her cheeks grow hot. Hopefully he would think it was embarrassment. "With all due respect sir, I believe I told you as much last night."  
  
He sat back in his seat and shook his head. "Surely you could have chosen someone with a more subtle aesthetic sense, like one of the Ravenclaw girls?"  
  
"Parkinson came highly recommended. The underwear spell was Millicent Bulstrode's idea."  
  
Snape's face was pinched with disgust. "Haven't you been able to remove the offending garments?"  
  
"No sir," she said, cheeks burning. "I think only you can do that."  
  
"I see. Come here, Miss Granger."  
  
Hardly daring to breathe, Hermione came around the back of his desk and stood before him.  
  
"If the spell Miss Bulstrode taught you is one of the more rudimentary ones, this should release you."  
  
He poked his index finger into the steel fastenings of the bustier just above her navel. His touch was brief and indelicate, but she felt it sear through her clothes. She just managed to keep from shuddering.  
  
His voice was sharp. "Well?"  
  
She pulled out the tails of her blouse and reached greedily up underneath. The bustier was fastened tight as ever. Her heart was beating a pasodoble in her throat. She managed to keep her voice steady.  
  
"I don't think it worked, sir. I'm afraid you're going to have to unfasten them with your bare hands."  
  
He met her eyes, dark and fathomless, and she did her best not to blink. It was the oddest sensation; she felt as if his stare was sliding into her eyes, through her retinas, up her optical nerves, and pushing insistently into her brain. The heat from his touch burst dazzlingly into her mind, followed quickly by his breath in her ear as he whispered instructions on decanting palm wine into a Nigerian anti-malarial potion. On her tongue, she felt the rich Bordeaux he'd opened for her most recent set of anti- inflammatory tests- no sense in wasting the rest, he'd said. Drink up. Belatedly, she realized that he was using legilimency on her.  
  
The outraged realization made a door inside her mind slam shut, and Snape was thrown back in his chair, struggling to catch his breath.  
  
"I had no idea you were sincere," he said lamely, blotting perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief.  
  
"I was under a truth potion last night. How could I have lied to you? And even if I could've, do you think I would lie to you, especially about something this important?"  
  
"I hope you don't think your underwear problems are of any importance to me," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "If I'd been thinking a moment ago, I would have sent you immediately to your head of house."  
  
It was Hermione's turn to slam the desk. "I'm not talking about my underwear! I'm talking about my feelings for you!"  
  
"All the more disappointing for you, Miss Granger," he said coolly, peeling a strand of hair from his damp forehead, "since I never wish to hear you bring up either subject again. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"  
  
"Yes sir," she said. "But may I ask you a question?"  
  
"You may." The mulish look on his face did not make her feel optimistic.  
  
She took a deep breath. "A few months ago, I came across the fourth edition of Hogwarts, A History. Since it was written in 1300, I thought it would be fascinating to compare it to the bowdlerized current edition. In the older edition, I came across a biography of a married couple, both teachers, who had met and married while she was still a Hogwarts student and he was a teaching. Consulting the fifth through twelfth editions, I found no fewer than twenty such couples, all of whom were allowed to see one another socially while the younger was still in school, and all of whom were invited back as teachers."  
  
"Fascinating as this is, I trust you will get to the question before dawn?"  
  
She cleared her throat. "I took the liberty of reading the Hogwarts Charter and all subsequent amendments, and I found nothing banning professor-pupil relations. I even asked Professor Binns. I can only conclude that there is no policy condemning such relationships."  
  
"Miss Granger, if you don't stop beating about the bush I will be forced to take points."  
  
She met his gaze squarely, though she felt as if her heart would burst through her ribcage at any moment. "Professor Snape, as I'm sure you are perfectly aware, I enjoy your company and am very attracted to you. Will you give me a chance to prove the depth of my sincerity?"  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"For the very simple reason that I do not like you, Miss Granger. Good day." He stood up and began to gather the sample flasks from the seventh year class.  
  
Three years ago, almost to the tick, she had stood in the presence of the same man and let his casually cruel, "I see no difference" drive her to tears and humiliation. Hermione couldn't say exactly when the venom ceased to sting and began to inflame, but it most certainly had.  
  
Snape turned from his task, presumably to seek the source of the choking sound that emanated from her direction.  
  
Hermione was laughing. It started with silent shaking of the shoulders, then gasping intakes of breath, and then she issued forth with a full belly laugh that danced around the dungeon like sunbeams through cut glass. She gasped for breath, and again fell into belly laughs.  
  
Snape had fixed his most threatening scowl on her, but it only made her laugh harder. He had come up in front of her and grasped her forearms before she was able to meet his stare. She was still for a moment, and then her lips quirked, and she was laughing again.  
  
"Miss Granger, calm yourself!" His grip was iron. "You are hysterical."  
  
"No, sir," she said, taking a deep breath. "You are. And I love you for it."  
  
There it was.  
  
Snape released her as if she had suddenly become too hot to hold. Perhaps she had. She could read nothing in his expression.  
  
"I'll see you next Tuesday, sir."  
  
She did not run to the door, nor did she turn back as she left.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Huge thanks to my betas, Dana and Jeff!  
  
Equally huge and far more numerous thanks to all of you who have reviewed! Because I can't give you all bear hugs or serenade you, I can't adequately express how grateful I am to you for your kind, funny, and insightful comments. But put those fertile imaginations to work and you'll have a pretty good idea.  
  
I'm nearly finished with this story (rough draft, of course) but I refuse to post without having someone excise my most egregious errors, so I'm sticking to the 1-betaed-chapter-per-week schedule. KDarkMaiden, you are an evil, evil individual. [EG] 


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Absinthe of Reason  
  
Author: Mundungus42  
  
Rating: R (well on its way)  
  
Disclaimer: Climb every mountain, cite every quote. Snape and Granger aren't mine, nor is A.D.'s goat.  
  
Summary: Response to the WIKTT Gryffindor Stud challenge.. growing more Gryffindor and more studly with each successive chapter.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The next morning found Hermione waiting impatiently for Neville in the common room. She hoped he was a little less lovestruck than the other Gryffindor Stud hopefuls, who seemed to be unable to speak two words of sense together when she approached them.  
  
She had it from Dennis that, Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Neville had put the Psyche Potion to good use the previous morning, although it had netted all of them an additional two weeks of detention and even fewer opportunities to see their hard-won loves.  
  
They didn't seem to mind this particular obstacle- Seamus had floated through the common room composing extemporaneous odes to Padma Patil's nose that Hermione prayed would never reach Padma's ears, while Ron fondly tried to straighten Harry's fringe, both falling into giggles as they exited the portrait hole. Boys.  
  
When Neville finally appeared, Hermione found herself unable to keep from staring. He stood at the foot of the stairs like a king: feet spread wide, arms akimbo, chin jutting as he surveyed the common room. He was as an eagle to his housemates' turtledoves.  
  
Hermione inquired in his ear if he was claiming the Gryffindor Stud title. He shook his head grandly.  
  
"Mil has taken my regard at face value. I need no petty enticements to know that I will conquer her heart. The rest is incidental."  
  
She blinked. "That's wonderful, Neville."  
  
His eyes widened, giving him the passing look of the old Neville. "But what about you and Snape, Hermione? Did anything happen last night?"  
  
"Well, yes," she gave him a half smile, "and no. I've got an appointment with the Headmaster that should determine a great deal after Care of Magical Creatures. I need someone to let Professor McGonagall know where I am for the first part of Transfiguration. You'll tell her, won't you? I tried to tell the others, but they're all dithering about like garden gnomes this morning."  
  
Neville clapped her on the shoulder. "You can count on me, Hermione."  
  
Conviction renewed and filled with affection, Hermione grasped him in a firm hug. "I knew I could count on you, Neville. And I'm so happy for-" she cut off abruptly and stiffened at what her arms encountered on Neville's waist and back. Was he wearing a corset??  
  
Neville met her eye. "She'll know what to do with it, after all," he said in an undertone, then walked away with a wink.  
  
Hermione stared at his retreating back in awe. If Neville could confront a violent Slytherin female wearing exciting underwear, then she could certainly approach the Headmaster with her intentions. As long as Dumbledore didn't offer her licorice allsorts, she thought she could keep her adult face.  
  
She squared her shoulders and went through the portrait hole.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"Won't you have a licorice allsort, Miss Granger?"  
  
Be strong, Hermione! She cleared her throat. "No thank you, Headmaster. And you haven't answered my question."  
  
Dumbledore sat back in his chair and solemnly twiddled a yellow striped sweet between his thumb and index finger. "You wish me to answer here and now? Can you not wait a few days for me to discuss it with your head of house?"  
  
"No sir. The decision, both in law and in spirit is yours. Besides, there are things at stake that are far too important."  
  
"I hope you're referring to more than the Stud of Gryffindor title."  
  
Did the whole bloody school know? She fought for control of her features. "Yes, sir. Much more."  
  
The Headmaster crunched down hard on his piece of candy. "I feel it only fair to tell you, Miss Granger, that the probability of my granting your request is currently slim to none. Your behaviour ever since your ridiculous bet with Messrs. Potter, Weasley, Finnigan, and Longbottom has hardly befitted someone of your reputation and academic standing. Furthermore, I am finding it more and more difficult to deny Severus his ardent wish that you be placed under probation and given detention for the remainder of the year. It is no small matter to distribute an illicit and dangerous potion and then lie about it."  
  
"I did not lie about it, Headmaster."  
  
"Perhaps, but you were less than forthcoming to Professor Snape. Did you know that by the time Madam Pomfrey had discovered the truth about the potion's origin from the affected students, he had already confiscated the potion from Miss Parkinson and deducted fifteen points from Slytherin?"  
  
Points from his own house? That was serious.. She lowered her eyes. "No, sir, I didn't know that."  
  
The Headmaster's voice was grave. "You will have one chance to explain yourself, Miss Granger."  
  
Hermione swallowed the hard lump in her throat and blinked back the tears that were in danger of falling. Professor Snape was furious with her, and Professor Dumbledore was disappointed. "I don't know where to begin, Headmaster."  
  
"Tell me more about the bet with your housemates."  
  
"What do you know already?"  
  
"I know which students are in the running, the identities of their romantic objects, the date the competition started, what Mr. Weasley's brothers sent him that night and therefore why you have been so persistent in troubling my Potions Master with inappropriate advances. Because I do not yet know all the facts, I have offered no advice to Severus on how to interpret your actions, but they seem to me the kind of juvenile prank that ill-befits a Head Girl."  
  
Hermione's heart, which had sunk lower with each successive word, suddenly skipped a beat.  
  
"There's a rather important aspect of the Gryffindor Stud competition that I don't think you are aware of, Headmaster."  
  
"Other than the binding effect the alcohol had on your bet?"  
  
"Yes sir, though I won't deny that it influenced my actions. Do you know how the intended was chosen for each participant?"  
  
The lines in his forehead deepened. "I had assumed that the others chose the person who would be the most difficult for the participant to successfully- er- woo. Is this not the case?"  
  
"No, Headmaster," she said softly. "The challenge rose from the collective despair of ever being with the unobtainable people we admired, not from any kind of mean-spiritedness. This is why truth potion has been the most effective weapon in this battle. It's also why I'm asking you to give me the same opportunity as my schoolmates to pursue the object of my affection."  
  
"Do you mean to tell me that you would have pursued Severus even without this bet?" The scepticism in his voice stung.  
  
"Yes, I jolly well would have!" she shouted, no longer caring if Dumbledore believed her. . The Headmaster stared at her the same way Seamus, Harry and Ron had stared at her that night. Hermione sighed.  
  
"Please don't ask why I feel the way I do. I hardly know how to put it into words."  
  
She could read nothing in Dumbledore's expression as he handed her the candy dish. "Try."  
  
She popped an allsort between her teeth and cheek and sucked thoughtfully for a few moments.  
  
"I think Professor Snape is one of the best men I have ever known. I don't mean to say he's the nicest or the easiest to get along with. He is a proud, ill-tempered man with a sharp tongue. His temper is short and he holds as tightly to his grudges as he does his privacy. In spite of that, he's also brilliant, erudite, funny, attractive, an excellent mentor, and honourable to a fault. In short, he's everything I ever wished for in a partner and more."  
  
Dumbledore sat back in her chair, but did not interrupt. Encouraged, she took a deep breath.  
  
"Professor Snape has also taught me to improve myself, though in ways I don't think he realizes. In the most prosaic sense, he's made me a better student by demanding a higher degree of excellence than many of my other professors. But beyond that, I learned to judge a person's character not from what he says, but by his actions."  
  
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Well, look at how he treats Harry! Professor Snape heaps abuse on him in class but has risked his life to save him so many times."  
  
"You're one of the few in your class who seems to have noticed," said Dumbledore, laying his glasses aside and massaging the bridge of his nose. "My dear, I apologise for the awkward nature of this question, but I'm sure you'll understand why I must ask. Has Professor Snape given any indication that he returns your affections?"  
  
She knew she was walking a fine line. Too much one way could get Professor Snape a reprimand or worse, and too much the other way would make her sound ridiculous.  
  
"His behaviour toward me has always been correct, but I feel very strongly that under the right circumstances, we would do well together."  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "Miss Granger, Professor Snape is more than twice your age with easily five times your experience. He has been cruel to you, hateful to your friends, has shown you no special favours and even told you that he does not like you. I fail to see how changing your circumstances will make your overtures to him any more successful than they have been."  
  
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Did Professor Snape speak to you about last night?"  
  
He shifted slightly in his chair. "I had it from one of the paintings."  
  
"Has Professor Snape spoken to you at all about his feelings for me or the Gryffindor Stud title?"  
  
"I spoke to him about it."  
  
"And?"  
  
"He made no comment on either subject." Dumbledore waved a hand impatiently. "But this is irrelevant."  
  
"It most certainly is not," she snapped. "If Professor Snape hasn't spoken to you on either subject, he obviously doesn't wish you to be involved. His reasons for behaving the way he did are his own, and you have no right to project yours on to him."  
  
"The same is true for you, Miss Granger," he countered. "Why are your projections, namely that he wishes to conceal his romantic interest in you for propriety's sake, any more valid than mine, which is that your declarations have made him embarrassed and uncomfortable?"  
  
"With all due respect, Headmaster, it's because I was there and you weren't."  
  
Dumbledore sighed impatiently. She raised her hand.  
  
"Please let me clarify, sir. In your long acquaintance with Professor Snape, have you ever known him to be enthusiastic about anything?"  
  
"Any number of things, yes."  
  
"But he didn't show his enthusiasm in a normal way, did he? He just complained about it slightly less than usual, am I right?"  
  
The corner of the Headmaster's mouth twitched. "Go on."  
  
"I told Professor Snape that I was attracted to him, and he didn't throw things or attempt hex me. He just said that he didn't 'like' me. For a man whose incisive insults have driven the most hardened students to tears, don't you think that seems a bit mild? Imprecise, even?"  
  
"Indeed."  
  
The concession made her start. "What?"  
  
"Miss Granger, I am more than acquainted with Severus's moods and modes of speech. But I wasn't sure that you were."  
  
She could have fainted with relief to see that a ghost of a twinkle had appeared in the Headmaster's eye. Her words poured out in a rush.  
  
"Please, Headmaster. I've been his pupil for the past six years and studied privately with him. Any romantic illusions I might have had were dispelled years ago. All that remains is respect, admiration, and affection. I don't believe he will be an easy man to be with; we're not very similar, he and I. But in our interests and our characters, we complement one another, I think."  
  
He regarded her through his half-moon spectacles, but she did not offer more. It was like staring down a hippogriff. To her great surprise, he broke their eye contact with a sigh.  
  
"You do realize that your request is highly unusual."  
  
"Not in the past, sir," she said earnestly, smelling victory at the change of subject. "Armando Dippet did it four times for precocious students during his tenure as headmaster, and Phineas Nigellus allowed more than fifty students to do so over his ten years-"  
  
Dumbledore cut her off with a gentle gesture and a chuckle. "Peace, child. Your academic credentials were never in question. If it had been up to me, I would have had you sit your NEWTs two years ago and whisked you off to study tactics at the War Academy in China, but the other members of the Order argued that it would make you a target."  
  
Warmth filled her, causing the devil's tongue knot in her stomach to loosen. She slid a parchment across the Headmaster's desk, willing herself not to burst in to tears of joy. "All my petition needs is your signature, sir."  
  
Dumbledore produced a flame-coloured quill from the folds of his robes. "Do see that you are successful, Miss Granger. I would hate to explain to Severus how you escaped punishment if you fail to distract him." He signed his name with a flourish. "Congratulations, Miss Granger. You are now a graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, with all the rights and privileges pertaining thereto." He tapped the parchment with his wand and sent it flying out the window.  
  
In spite of her excitement, she was slightly alarmed. "Wouldn't an owl be a little more reliable, Headmaster?"  
  
"Surely in your intensive study of 'Hogwarts, A History' you came across the fact that graduation petitions fly of their own accord to the Improper Use of Magic Office? Nobody knows how, but that's because the Department won't authorize the use of magic to study the method."  
  
Hermione watched the parchment disappear in the distance over the Forbidden Forest. "To be honest sir, I'd forgotten. I've been studying graduation requirements so intensely that I hadn't quite made it to what happens afterward."  
  
The Headmaster twinkled insinuatingly at her. "Well Miss Granger, there is usually a feast to celebrate," a plate of sandwiches appeared on his desk, "followed by the imbibing of sophisticated adult beverages. And speaking of which, let's see what Severus has taught you. Can you make a Larchmont?"  
  
Hermione deftly summoned the Butter-Rum and orange liqueur that she suspected were hidden in the Headmaster's cupboard. "Did Merlin wear blue pants?"  
  
The Headmaster's eyes gleamed as she transfigured his inkwell into a gleaming cocktail shaker. "So about your plan to snare my Potions Master-"  
  
"Now, now, Headmaster," she admonished, conjuring a handful of ice cubes. "It is not the job of the bartender to speak, but to listen.  
  
He beamed at her. "Very well then, Miss Granger. I heard a rather funny one the other day about a pirate who walks into a bar with a steering wheel hanging from his trousers-"  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The rest of the day was somewhat surreal. She didn't even cluck her tongue at Neville's slightly singed notes from Transfiguration. While ignoring a highly revisionist lecture on Grindelwald's destruction of Dresden in History of Magic, Hermione realized that nothing she did in class really mattered anymore. She was strongly tempted to test her theory on the effects of banishing spells on ghosts on the droning professor. She managed to stop herself, but only just.  
  
Near total secrecy of her graduation had been her own request. She would still sit the Ministry-graded NEWTs with her classmates, and she had no desire to have Harry and Ron badger her to cast magic in the corridors, enter the Forbidden Forest, befoul the castle, and flaunt the myriad rules that no longer bound her as an alumna. Dumbledore had placed his trust in her, and she had no desire to betray it. Still, seeing Mrs. Norris skulking behind a suit of armour was a sore test to her resolve. But she didn't want to tip her hand to Snape or the boys.  
  
Just until tonight, she told herself. Then Hogwarts will never know what hit it.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The boys were in detention with Filch by the time she returned to Gryffindor tower after her last-minute cramming session in the library. In an act of surprising foresight, Harry had left his invisibility cloak on her bed with a note that read, "Go get him, tiger!"  
  
She pulled off her jumper, unbuttoned her blouse and sighed with relief. The underwear charm must have had been designed with a situation like hers in mind- even though she had been wearing it for nearly three days straight, it didn't smell. Letting her outer clothes fall to the floor, she moved to the full-length mirror and examined the bustier and garter belt.  
  
It was not at all what she would have chosen. Pansy and Millicent had overridden her objections to black and pink silk with pink ribbons. Still, it wasn't the end of the world. Even if it wasn't quite her style, sexy underwear had been by far Pansy's most valuable contribution to Hermione's quest for sexual confidence. If only there was something she could do about the pink...  
  
Inspired, Hermione grabbed her wand. She couldn't get rid of the dratted things, but perhaps she might change their appearance. Fixing an image from an old film in her head, she carefully flicked her wand at her chest.  
  
She felt the bustier ripple before she realized that her transfiguration had worked. It had lengthened, forming a vee below her navel, and she had replaced the complicated laces with nearly invisible hook closures, and smooth burgundy silk for the pink ribbons. The frilly garter belt was summarily simplified, as well. As an afterthought, she added some jet beads to the burgundy sections.  
  
The fishnet stockings were next. She retrieved them from her shower curtain rod and transfigured them into sheer black silk. Much better.  
  
She washed her face, cast a depilating charm on her legs, and applied the moisturizer Pansy had given her. When she had finished, she carefully rolled up one of the black silk stockings and placed her toe in the centre, as Pansy had instructed, before rolling it up over her leg and attaching it to the clips dangling from the belt. After securing the second stocking, she risked a glance at the full-length mirror over her shoulder.  
  
The full effect was rather more than she had bargained for, and it took her breath away. The simple black silk arch above her posterior seemed to be supported by dark columns that ran down the sides of her thighs to the tops of the stockings. Her exposed buttocks were framed perfectly. Eyes glued to the figure in the mirror, she arched her back and ran her hand from the warm flesh of her cheek down to the back of her knee, and back up again. The silk whispered under her fingertips, and she felt herself grow warmer still. She lowered the leg that was still propped on the bathtub and turned to face the mirror full on.  
  
It was incredible how all of the garments together brought focus to the knickers she wasn't wearing. The dark lines of the garter straps highlighted the pale skin of her upper thighs and the dark patch above them. She brushed an experimental finger across the soft flesh below the vee of her bustier, and shuddered at the warm tingles stirring beneath.  
  
She ran her fingers over the beads up her sides and over the tips of her breasts, pausing to enjoy the warm silk and the featherlike sensations on her skin beneath. Lovely. The bead pattern consisted of lacelike arches and curves, but held a subtle suggestion of reptilian scales. Not for nothing had Hermione studied up on Victorian design for the mouse-to-snuffbox practical exam first year.  
  
She pressed her hot palms against the undersides of her breasts and sighed. So warm. Almost perfect. Perfection would be when his hand replaced hers. She shivered at the prospect.  
  
There would be no naughty schoolgirl tonight. Just a woman in her own clothes, her own skin, and on her own terms.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Huge thanks to Dana and Jeff, my utterly squidgable beta readers!  
  
My apologies for the late post- I was skiing. As you can tell, I still retain higher thought functions (and a few lower ones) and the ability to type. So I'd say it was a successful trip.  
  
Anyway, ginormous, hugastical thanks to all those who reviewed! I'm sorry if I confused some of you with the previous chapter. Hopefully some lingering questions were clarified by this chapter. The next chapter will contain both absinthe and reason.  
  
Onwards and downwards! 


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Absinthe of Reason  
  
Author: Mundungus42  
  
Rating: Like any good pirate movie, rated ARR!  
  
Disclaimer: I don't even own a car, for the love of Pete!  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Severus Snape was so focused on his book that he wasn't aware the door to his private chambers had opened silently. To be fair, he didn't expect that anyone, save the Headmaster, had the ability and inclination to open that particular door, and the Headmaster always arrived through the fireplace. Because he was easily the least popular teacher, he had an impressive range of anti-student protections on the door to protect him from petty revenge, and because of his less-than savoury past, he had an equally impressive array of sensitive dark detectors that would alert him silently when someone who intended to harm him entered his room.  
  
None of the spells had gone off.  
  
Hermione breathed a silent sigh of relief.  
  
She had overheard the Headmaster mention a staff meeting that evening from nine to ten, and had waited silently for Snape at the entrance to the dungeons. She followed him down a rarely used corridor and stopped in front of what appeared to be a solid wall, not far from the potions classroom. He looked twice over each shoulder, and muttered his password. She suppressed a snort. She doubted very many people knew the word "borborygmi," much less would guess it as Snape's password.  
  
That obstacle aside, she still had to wait until it was safe to enter. Unfortunately, when she pressed her ear against the cool stone, she heard nothing.  
  
After ten minutes had elapsed, she cast a silencing charm on the hidden door, whispered the password, took a deep breath and pushed the hidden door open a crack.  
  
The room was dark except for a lit fireplace that crackled merrily against the back wall and a reading light that cast the chair's occupant in shadow. His chair was half facing the door, and her heart nearly stopped, but he didn't seem to have noticed her entrance. He was motionless, face bent over a book in his lap. His chest rose and fell slowly, as if he were in a trance. Knowing how difficult it was to get her attention when she was in a similar state, Hermione edged her way into the room, opening the door only enough for her to squeeze through.  
  
Hardly daring to breathe, she closed the door slowly after her. It slid silently shut. She was in!  
  
Stop that, she admonished herself. You can celebrate when you wake up next to him. If you wake up at all.  
  
She examined her surroundings. Professor Snape's outer chamber was a square room with a high ceiling, which was decorated somewhat arbitrarily with neoclassical busts. The walls were lined with dark wood bookshelves, and two leather wing chairs sat next to the fireplace. Directly across the room from her was the entrance to a second room, separated by a set of drawn purple curtains. It appeared to be some kind of private laboratory; a half- obscured bench was piled high with precariously complex glassware. A strong odor of anise emanated from the laboratory.  
  
Odd. Where was his bedroom? His private bathroom? Knowing Snape, those intimate quarters were probably behind another hidden door. Even though the elaborate busts seemed a bit out of character, the hidden doors and copious bookshelves suited him perfectly; equal parts hermit and scholar. As fitting as it was, it made her job of guerrilla seduction all the harder. Typical of Snape to be difficult when he wasn't even trying.  
  
She crept past the purple curtains into his laboratory. The walls were covered with shelves and shelves of brightly coloured bottles, presumably of potions ingredients. Various round-bottomed flasks in the jumble of glassware on the bench bubbled merrily over burners, each connected to an enormous burette by lengths of glass tubing. The burette had to have some sort of cooling charm on it, since the steam from the tubes quickly condensed and dribbled down to the reservoir at the bottom. So he was distilling something. However, this distillation required so many ingredients as to puzzle her. Each amount had been meticulously laid out on small sheets of paper near a large open book on the work bench.  
  
Curiosity aroused, she started toward the book. Not two steps closer to the bench, a soft chime made her jump. Snape had extricated himself from the book and strode into the laboratory. Cursing herself silently, Hermione pressed herself against the wall of the lab, praying that he wouldn't need any of the ingredients behind her.  
  
Snape consulted the book on the bench, then reached a hand toward Hermione. She was justable to dodge out of the way, and his hand connected with a bottle from the wall behind her instead of her head. She let out a silent sigh of relief. He removed the cork, deftly added a jigger to a clean Erlenmeyer flask, lit a new burner, then swirled it gently over the flame. The bitter-smelling draught had to be some form of wormwood, unless her nose deceived her.  
  
She had made some complicated potions with wormwood, but nothing as complex at the one Snape was creating. His entire body was focused on the task at hand- the hand with the flask never stilled or drifted away from the flame, and the other conducted a great symphony of hissing steam, gurgling liquid, and clinking glass. Snape twisted valves and added the powdered ingredients with increasing speed and intensity, when at last he drew the wormwood mixture from the flame, removed the stopcock from the burette, and poured its contents into the flask.  
  
Before the solutions had an opportunity to mix, Snape decanted them into a slender bottle and stuffed a cork down the neck until there. Panting slightly, he held the bottle aloft and began to turn it gently.  
  
The brown, opaque fluid inside began to ripple with light. Soon, it was shimmering with blue-white light, and it nearly hurt Hermione's eyes to look at it. But it quickly peaked and began to fade, leaving in the bottle a crystalline liquid of bright green. When the last of the white light had faded, Snape held the bottle up to the light.  
  
The clear, green liquid brought a satisfied half-smile to his face, and he plunked the bottle into a metal pan filled with ice.  
  
Drawing his wand from his sleeve, he began to clean the glassware, returning the individual components of the impressive structure to wooden drawers beneath the surface of the bench.  
  
Hermione shook her head, at last freeing herself from his hypnotic movements. What iwas/i it? Damn! He was between her and the potions book.  
  
As if sensing her intention, Snape snatched the book and returned quickly returned it to a high shelf in the other room. She stepped out of his way and craned her neck trying to read the tiny gold-stamped print on the spine of the book. When she succeeded, she could have laughed aloud. i Liqueurs de Le Calvez/i. A book that had appeared in nearly every bibliography and works cited page she had come across in her alcohol potion research. Unfortunately, it was in French, and she had discovered that her elementary French was more hindrance than help.  
  
But it certainly narrowed down the possibilities for Snape's mystery distillation. There was only one liqueur she knew that was such a peculiar shade of green and contained wormwood: the infamous iFée Verte/i, known to the English as absinthe.  
  
She spun around at the odd sloshing sound behind her, and found Snape lugging the bottle of absinthe, still in its ice bath, across the room.  
  
With a soft "oof," Snape set the pan down on a low shelf. Crossing to the bookcase to the right of the fireplace, he pulled down a book with a thin black spine. To Hermione's astonishment, the entire bookcase swung gently forward into darkness.  
  
Snape took up the ice bath again, and Hermione seized her chance and entered the room ahead of him. As she had suspected, the door swung shut behind him. The room was much darker than his library and lab. She couldn't make out many of the room's features.  
  
A harsh murmur lit the other lamps in the room, and Hermione found herself in his bed chamber. It was decorated much more simply than his outer chamber in comfortable dark greens and reds. These walls were also covered with bookshelves, but they appeared to be books meant for enjoyment, not for study. The bed was, thankfully, wide enough for more than one. The thought made her shiver. If the man could bring such a pleasant tingle to her lower extremities just by possessing a king sized bed, she feared hyperventilating if he started taking off his clothes.  
  
Snape set his burden down upon a marble-topped wet bar that stood next to a wooden wardrobe and sighed. Unfastening the high collar of his teaching robe, he trudged through a door on the right, which Hermione assumed led to his private bath.  
  
When the door closed and she heard the sound of a tub filling with water, she leaped into action.  
  
Her original plan had been to add her last dose of the Psyche Potion to whatever he was drinking, but thought better of it. The sweet ingredients of the potion would destroy the clarity and colour of the absinthe, and he would know better than to drink it.  
  
Quickly opening and shutting the drawers and cabinets on the bar, she quickly located what she suspected she would find: a slotted absinthe spoon and a bowl of sugar cubes. Good- he was a traditional absinthe drinker.  
  
She removed one of the cubes from the bowl and cast an absorbency spell on it before dropping it into her vial of Psyche Solution. The sugar cube swelled to three times its original size and turned the opaque green of the potion. Her years of transfiguration and charms served her well in returning it to its original size and colour, but retaining the properties of the potion.  
  
Now, to make sure he used the spiked sugar cube. Hoping that he was as precise in preparing his drinks as he was in distilling them, she broke the remaining sugar cubes and placed her cube at the top of the bowl.  
  
She carefully returned the sugar bowl to its place in the cabinet and retreated to the far corner of the room. The stage was set. Now all she had to do was wait.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
He emerged from the bathroom in a billow of steam in a dark bathrobe, long hair in damp disarray. Her eyes greedily drank in the pale triangle of chest that the robe left exposed. He strode purposefully toward the absinthe and rummaged through the cupboards on the bar.  
  
He withdrew a tall glass, the absinthe spoon, and the sugar bowl from a drawer. Hermione found that she was holding her breath.  
  
He unstoppered the bottle of absinthe, which had fogged over, and poured three fingers of absinthe into the glass. He then plucked the whole sugar cube from the bowl- Hermione's heart was thudding- and placed it in the slotted spoon. A well-aimed stream of seltzer water broke apart the cube and dissolved it into his glass of alcohol.  
  
He stirred, and the brilliant green faded into pale opacity. He raised the glass to his lips and took a sip.  
  
How many sips would it take for him to be under the influence of the Psyche Potion? Would his countenance change when it took hold? Hermione couldn't help herself. She moved across the room toward him, stocking feet silent on the plush carpet. When she was about ten feet from him, he startled her by drawing his wand from a hidden pocket and pointing it at her.  
  
"Stop where you are, or I'll kill you where you stand." He lazily took another sip of absinthe, but his wand did not waver.  
  
The terror of suddenly being discovered was quickly replaced by shock. How on earth had he known?  
  
"One would think that someone clever enough to access my quarters would also know better than to walk through a cloud of steam while invisible, but I am quite lucky that you weren't. Show yourself!"  
  
Taking a deep breath, she drew the cloak from herself slowly, exposing inch after inch of flesh. When she had entirely shed the cloak, she stood before him wearing only the impressive undergarments and a defiant expression.  
  
Snape ran his eyes up and down her body, and drew a deep breath. "This is peculiar."  
  
Well, he hadn't hexed her yet. She straightened her shoulders. "Why do you say that?"  
  
His brow was furrowed. "Because I have never suffered hallucinations when drinking absinthe of my own brewing."  
  
Emboldened, she took a step towards him. "What makes you think that I'm a hallucination?"  
  
"Two reasons. First of all, hallucinations often take the form of that which has been on one's mind, and trying to divine the full effect of your, that is to say, the real Miss Granger's enchanted undergarments has been, much to my dismay, insistently in my mind. It has been most trying."  
  
She smiled. The truth potion was at work, all right. Fortunately, he seemed none the wiser. "And the second reason?"  
  
"Simply this. You are, or rather, the real Miss Granger is, a student. If you were in fact here, you would have triggered some very nasty anti- student wards and been expelled before you could say Johann Gambolputty of Ulm."  
  
"And can you think of no other explanation for my presence?"  
  
"Of course I can think of other explanations," he said impatiently. "But this one seems the simplest and the most likely, facts being what they are."  
  
"What facts?"  
  
"Irrefutable ones," he said, easing into a chair and taking another sip of his drink. "First, the most prosaic. Your bustier is of a different design than the one I felt through Miss Granger's shirt yesterday evening. Furthermore, the ensemble you are currently wearing is far more to my taste than anything Miss Bulstrode or Miss Parkinson could ever invent. This leads me to believe that the vision in burgundy before me has been generated not by the girls who put you- pardon, the real Miss Granger- in short skirts and high heels, but by my own imagination."  
  
"Could I not have changed the design without removing it?"  
  
He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose. It would have been very much in character for Granger to do so. But I wasn't finished enumerating my facts."  
  
She smiled and walked slowly to the bar. "I apologise for interrupting, sir. May I?"  
  
He nodded, then returned to his recital. "The second fact supporting your ephemeral nature was given to me by the Headmaster this evening. Miss Granger now knows that I am aware of her participation the Gryffindor Stud competition-"  
  
She nearly dropped the small glass of absinthe she had poured for herself to taste.  
  
"- and will be ceasing her attentions to me forthwith upon threat of expulsion."  
  
What game was the Headmaster playing? "Did he say that?"  
  
He frowned at her. "He implied- in as many words. I believe so. I don't know. Stop interrupting!"  
  
She grinned unrepentantly. "Sorry, Professor."  
  
His scowl could have curdled milk. "The final fact, and the most compelling one: only I would have the dubious honour of being subjected to a crude version of the Socratic method by a scantily clad hallucination."  
  
She laughed. "Then no more questions."  
  
"No, Miss Granger or reasonable facsimile thereof, I would much rather hear from you about why you're here. No doubt to drive me to masturbation. How wholly unoriginal."  
  
She took a tiny sip from the undiluted absinthe in her glass. The bitter herbs exploded on her tongue; wormwood followed by hyssop, mint, coriander, dittany. The oddest part was that the part of her lips and tongue that the liquid touched instantly went numb. She swallowed, the strong alcohol simultaneously searing and numbing her throat. Wow. "Believe me, sir, driving you to masturbation is the furthest thing from my mind."  
  
His eyes narrowed. "Really."  
  
She waved her hand in a conciliatory gesture. "I admit, I did come here with the sole intention of seducing you, sir."  
  
"Just as I suspected. A typical hallucination."  
  
"You didn't let me finish, nor did you note the use of the past tense."  
  
"Ah," he said, absently taking another sip of his drink. "Has the plan to seduce me changed?"  
  
"Yes. In the course of this conversation, I have decided that it would be far more fun for us to seduce one another."  
  
His lips thinned into a smirk. "And what makes you think I would be amenable to sex with an incorporeal student?"  
  
"Do you find me sexually attractive?"  
  
He made an impatient nose. "We've been through this already."  
  
She nodded. "You do. Do you find me interesting?"  
  
"I find the real Miss Granger's optimism and endless curiosity irritating."  
  
She nodded again. "You do. Do you have objections to my age?"  
  
His eyes widened in surprise as the reluctant answer forced itself from his lips. "You show great potential." He stared at her in half-realized outrage.  
  
She acknowledged him with a shrug. "I spiked your sugar cube with Psyche Potion, sir. I'm sorry, but it was necessary. I don't have the luxury of reading your mind to find out if you are sincere about me."  
  
He fury on his face translated itself to action at an alarming rate. He pounced on her roughly, pinning her wrists to the bed and placing one knee between her legs. Her heart jumped into her throat, her blood rushed simultaneously north and south, but she managed to say in a nearly normal, if not breathless, voice, "I've convinced you I'm not a hallucination, then?"  
  
"You listen to me, you impossible, brazen wretch. Never in my life has my privacy been invaded with such reckless disregard for the consequences," his voice was dangerously soft, and his face was inches from hers. "The last person who broke into my chambers is now dead. You may have escaped punishment from the Headmaster, but you will not escape mine."  
  
She stared up at him. His cheeks and lips were flushed, and his dark eyes gleamed. His bathrobe was loose around his shoulders, and his wet hair had fallen on either side of his face. He looked debauched, dishevelled, and completely, indescribably beautiful.  
  
With a quick push, she shoved her pinned wrists outwards, so that her arms were at right angles from her body. Since most of his weight had been resting on his hands, the sudden action caused him to fall forward onto her. She seized this opportunity to twist her hands free and wrap her arms around his torso. She buried her face into the junction of his neck and shoulder, the scent of his clean skin sending her to unprecedented heights of giddiness.  
  
"I'm not trying to escape," she said, then fastened her mouth securely to his neck.  
  
When he realized what she was doing, he struggled to free himself, but she held him tightly with her arms. He managed to drag them both into a sitting position, where he seized her shoulders and push her away. He was breathing almost as hard as she was. She couldn't tell if he was more furious or aroused. Fury seemed to have taken over momentarily.  
  
"Miss Granger-" he began, teeth bared.  
  
"Don't call me that," she cut him off and stood up. "I'm no longer your student. The Headmaster let me graduate early and has no more power over me. You're going to have to deal with me by yourself, here and now."  
  
His bared teeth turned into a feral grin. "You are forgetting something, Miss Granger."  
  
She placed her hands on her hips. "What?"  
  
"You may have graduated from Hogwarts, but I have not yet released you from your independent study."  
  
Something in the tone of his voice made her insides shiver. "Your anti- student wards didn't go off. Besides, I was under the impression that you cancelled it when I gave away the Psyche Potion."  
  
He got to his feet, straightened his robe, and raked his hair back from his face. "Oh no, Miss Granger. The wards were set to prevent Hogwarts students from entering my quaters, but have nothing to do with my private pupils. And the Headmaster convinced me to continue your study by assuring me that he would oversee your punishment."  
  
That was odd. Surely the Headmaster would have known... that sly old codger! He idid/i know! "Did he?"  
  
He nodded with a smirk. He was hovering with his arms crossed, the way he always did if he sensed she was unsure of what she was doing. Furthermore, the bastard wasn't going to offer any hint as to what she could expect.  
  
She cleared her throat, the one concession to nerves she allowed herself. "And what do you intend to do about it?"  
  
He walked over to the bar where their glasses still sat. He glared at the drugged glass of absinthe, and poured two fresh glasses, added the sugar and water, and handed one to her.  
  
"You seem to be under the impression that your graduation somehow makes you my equal and therefore a potential sexual partner. I hope you realize by now that this is not the case."  
  
"I would never presume to think I knew your mind, sir," she replied. "And I hope you would not presume to think that you know mine."  
  
He narrowed his eyes at the evasion. "Impertinent, Miss Granger. Do you not understand that your grade is at stake?"  
  
She tried to keep a straight face, but failed dismally. He scowled at her laughter.  
  
"Severus," she said, putting deliberate emphasis on his given name, "I don't care about my grade, and I asked you a question. What do you intend to do about the fact that I'm still technically your student?"  
  
She took a sip of the absinthe he had given her. The diluted, sweetened version, though less intense than the taste she'd had earlier, was no less impressive. The sugar brought out chamomile and tansy notes that the bitter ingredients had overpowered. Her entire mouth tingled.  
  
He was looking at her with an appraising eye. She raised an eyebrow in return. He cleared his throat and broke eye contact.  
  
"I propose a test. If you pass, I will give you full marks for your independent study. If you fail, I will fail you. Pass or fail. All or nothing, Miss Granger. Do you accept?"  
  
The warm tendrils of absinthe wound their way pleasantly around her abdomen, but the warmth did not reach her eyes. "No, sir."  
  
"No?"  
  
"It does nothing for me."  
  
He laughed harshly. "You call full marks from me for an independent study 'nothing?' I can count the number of independent students I've had on one hand, and none of those has received higher than adequate marks."  
  
She shook her head. "I don't like the stakes, sir. I would like my grade in the independent study to be based on what I've done so far, not an arbitrary test."  
  
"Miss Granger, you came this evening intent on seducing me. I would never allow this to happen while you are still my student. If you wish to terminate your study on your own terms, you may do so, but you will receive no credit for what you have done already. However, if you consent to take my test, you must do so now and on a pass/fail basis."  
  
Her heart was thumping. "I will take your test on one condition."  
  
"Name your terms."  
  
"If I pass, you will allow me to spend the night with you."  
  
She could read nothing in his face as he considered, and she could hardly keep herself from fidgeting. Instead, she focused on his eyes. She nearly jumped when he blinked.  
  
"Very well, Miss Granger. I accept."  
  
He raised his glass of absinthe, and she followed suit. They clinked glasses and drank, sealing their agreement.  
  
He gestured for her to have a seat on the bed.  
  
"Make yourself comfortable, Miss Granger. This test will likely prove to be the hardest you have ever taken."  
  
She swallowed. "What sort of test will this be, sir?"  
  
There was a ghost of a mephistophelean smile at the corners of his mouth. "An oral exam, Miss Granger."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Author's Notes: I really didn't set out to make this a cliffhanger, honestly! The conversation just got too interesting to cut short. Up next, the oral exam, followed by a rigorous practical. Heh heh.  
  
More thanks than you can shake a stick at to Dana and Jeff, my intrepid betas who keep me from falling on my face any more than necessary!  
  
The e-version of homemade marionberry ice cream to all of those who reviewed! You guys keep me going when lolling in the sun calls to me.  
  
Jan McNeville, I'd only planned for one of the three guesses you made, but the others are too hilarious to leave out! *cackles in witchy style* 


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Absinthe of Reason  
  
Author: Mundungus42  
  
Rating: R- and you finally get some R-rated stuff in this chapter  
  
Disclaimer: For anyone who was under the impression that I gained control of all things Harry Potter between this chapter and the last (I mean, this chapter is about 3 days late), I didn't. Really!  
  
~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Hermione swallowed hard. "An oral exam, sir?"  
  
Snape gestured to his bed, and she obligingly sat down on the edge. She was dismayed to find that her feet did not touch the floor. To avoid swinging her feet, she drew up her legs and slid her feet off to the side. She would have thought he was not interested in the display, but for the way he straightened his robe and spoke even more testily.  
  
"Yes, Miss Granger, an oral exam, and perhaps a short practical to follow, depending on how your oral skills satisfy me."  
  
Hermione could not control the blush rising in her cheeks. Was he doing this on purpose?  
  
"Miss Granger, look at me."  
  
She reluctantly met his eyes. He looked unamused at best. "Your answers will be graded on accuracy, completeness, and the depth of your references. You will be penalized for excessive hesitation, for incomplete answers, and," he narrowed his eyes, "for blushing."  
  
She met his glare with one of her own. "That's hardly fair, sir."  
  
"Neither is having to give an exam to a lingerie-clad student," he replied in a dry voice. "Are you ready to begin?"  
  
"Yes, Professor," she answered promptly.  
  
"Good. Question number one, what do I have in this glass?"  
  
"Absinthe sir, also sugar and carbonated water." They hadn't covered absinthe potions in her study, but between her assigned reading and monthly hormone-induced penchant for nineteenth century melodrama, she felt fairly confident on the subject.  
  
He nodded. "And the ingredients?"  
  
"I don't know completely, sir," she said honestly, "since I haven't read Le Calvez's recipe, but Henri Pernod used aniseed, fennel, hyssop, lemonbalm, and trace amounts of angelica, star anise, dittany, juniper, nutmeg, and veronica. Wormwood, the active ingredient, contains the neurotoxin thujone, which is why it has been banned in-"  
  
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "That will do. What causes the green colour?"  
  
To say the least, she was disappointed with his questions. "Chlorophyll from the plants, sir, though sometimes dishonest brewers used copper sulfate, turmeric, aniline green, and occasionally toxic substances, like mercury."  
  
"To what do you attribute its reputation?"  
  
Odd. This was the easiest exam she'd /i had from Snape. If she didn't know him as well as she did, she'd suspect he was making sure that she passed. However, she was certain that no matter how he felt about her, he was going to make things difficult. Which meant he was taking another approach to getting rid of her.  
  
He cleared his throat, interrupting her thoughts. Oh right, the infamy of absinthe in a hundred words or less.  
  
"Well, apart from the wormwood, a number of recipes include calamus, which is thought to have psychoactive effects: namely a heightened sense of reality in milder recipes and visual and auditory hallucinations in higher concentrations. Others, like Arsenius Jigger, feel that thujone is the likelier culprit. I am more inclined to agree with St. Hilaire, who attributes the dishonest absinthe brewers and their questionable quality control for the number of people who did unpredictable things while under the influence of absinthe."  
  
"Including going mad and occasionally dying, " he put in. Dry humour was a good sign, but she could have named a thousand things she'd rather be doing with him at that point, and that was a conservative estimate. He was definitely stalling, and she was getting tired of it.  
  
"Professor, do you honestly think I failed to complete my assigned reading?" she asked, unable to conceal her irritation.  
  
"That is precisely what this test is intended to determine. And I was under the impression that I was making this exam, not you."  
  
"If this is a typical exam for one of your independent students, your assessment of student intelligence in class is spot on, " she said, with no small bite in her voice. "Neville Longbottom could have passed this exam with you and his grandmother looking over his shoulder."  
  
His eyes narrowed. "Miss Granger, do you wish to receive credit for your independent study or not?"  
  
"If you plan to test rote memorisation and not the things I've actually /i this year, then what do I care if you give me full marks or no marks?"  
  
"With the condition you placed upon me, I should think you would care a great deal."  
  
"You only agreed to let me spend the night with you. If you continue with this line of questions for all the potions and alcohols covered in the reading, it will soon be midnight and you'll insist that I leave. No, Professor," she said, crossing her arms resolutely across her chest, "That is not how I intend to let the evening proceed."  
  
She wasn't sure which had hit him harder, her accurate description of his plan to get rid of her or her threat to take away his examiner's privilege, but for a split second, he looked shocked. To his credit, he quickly recovered. "What you intend is of no interest to me. And thanks to your interruption, you may consider your grade lowered by five percent."  
  
The threat was empty, and both of them knew it. Covering a smile of triumph with a sip of absinthe, she deliberately slid one silk-clad thigh over the other until her legs were crossed. Two could play at the double entendre game.  
  
"By all means, Professor, continue with the examination."  
  
She was delighted to see an infinitesimal amount of colour come to all of his exposed skin. The scowl, however, deepened. "Miss Granger, do not try my patience further. Were you finished expounding the infamy of absinthe, or was there more you'd like to add."  
  
"I'm done, sir."  
  
"Very well. According to your alcohol journal, this evening was your first experience with absinthe. Please describe it."  
  
I had the privilege of seeing it brewed by a Potions Master," she said with a grin.  
  
"I doubt that, unless you have been hiding in my quarters for the past two weeks."  
  
The compliment had merely been a test of his mood. His response had been dry rather than cutting. She was suddenly filled with a giddy surge of confidence. In his own way, he responded to her. Not just the underwear, but to her, temper and all!  
  
"Well then, it depends entirely on what you mean by 'experience,' sir," she said, absently trailing a finger along the strap of her garter belt. "Do you wish to know what fascinating things I've observed evening, like the colour change when sugar is added, or do you wish to know how it has affected me?" "  
  
"Why on earth should I care to know how alcohol affects you?"  
  
"Because," she said seriously, "I want you to be sure you won't be taking advantage of me."  
  
"The thought hadn't crossed my mind. Now answer the question before I banish you to the hallway, agreement or not."  
  
"Very well, then, sir," she said. She took a deep breath, looked into his face, and began to speak.  
  
"Absinthe. I knew about its nasty reputation, of course. I must confess, it rather intimidated me for some time. But upon later examining the things I thought I knew about it, I found that a great deal of the horrible things attributed to it were either exaggerated or completely untrue. That's what happens during troubled times in history- something must take the blame for death and degeneration. Why not absinthe? It looks like acid-green poison, deadly by the drop but consumed by the glass."  
  
He gave her a sharp look. "You think it completely undeserved of its infamy then?"  
  
"Nothing is completely innocent, but one must keep all things in perspective, including the sensational and melodramatic tendencies of the media and popular fiction."  
  
He finally broke eye contact and walked over to a chaise that sat near one of the bookshelves. He set his glass of absinthe on a nearby end table and regarded her stonily. "What do you know of historical context, Miss Granger?"  
  
She rolled over on her stomach to face him. His face was in shadow, but the soft lights of the room were reflected in his eyes. "I know that anything that survives such a campaign of intolerance has much more to it than meets the eye. I should like to learn more. I'm not afraid of what I may learn in more intensive study.'  
  
The eyes were still fixed on her. "Little fool," he said softly. "You have no idea what you're getting into."  
  
"Perhaps not. But I'd like to." She propped herself up on her elbows. "Have you any other questions for me about absinthe, sir?"  
  
"One more, if you wouldn't mind satisfying my curiosity."  
  
"Of course not, sir. May I consider it extra credit?"  
  
"I don't give extra credit."  
  
"Yes sir, sorry sir." She looked at him expectantly.  
  
"What did you think of your first taste tonight, after all of your study and reading?"  
  
At last! She slid off the bed, grateful to have floor under her feet again and went over to the bench where he lay half recumbent. She drained her glass of absinthe, welcoming the cooling sensation that followed the sweetened bitterness, before setting it on the end table and sitting next to him. He was still looking in the direction of the bed, but she felt his awareness as keenly as she felt her own excitement pouring off her like heat waves. Not yet daring to touch, she leaned toward him, just stopping short of his neck and inhaled.  
  
Faint notes of whatever he used for washing, but the strongest scent was Severus, clean and warm. Glorious! She heard him inhale suddenly, and her thoughts tumbled out on her exhalation.  
  
"I savoured my first taste with no adornments. The scent made me want to taste, and it was unlike anything I'd ever tasted. Bracing. Bitter. Complex- but with a clean finish that made me eager to taste again."  
  
She saw gooseflesh rise on his chest from her warm breath on his neck, and she brushed her cheek against his clavicle, bringing her lips to rest in the hollow above his breastbone. She felt rather than saw his Adam's apple bob. She began to press kisses along his clavicle in earnest, and was surprised to feel his hand seize hers and press it against his bare chest. His heart was hammering beneath his skin. She looked up into his face, which was faintly suffused with colour, but surprisingly calm for all of the adrenaline that was being pumped to other parts of his body.  
  
His thumb lightly brushed the back of her hand, and she jumped. His other hand reached to tuck a few curls behind her ear, and he traced her jawline with his fingertips. "Tell me, Miss Granger, what did your second taste reveal to you?" The question was professorial, but his voice most certainly was not. Something ragged was lurking beneath the surface of measured words and modulated tone.  
  
She caught his hand before he withdrew it and punctuated her next words with kisses planted on each fingertip. "Equal parts fresh. Bitter. Ferrous. Cedar. Sweet. Salty." The final word was spoken over his palm. The sibilant "s" and kiss in the centre of his life line sent a shiver through him, and she met his eye with a half smile. "Mostly, it made me want to explore further."  
  
"Foolish girl," he whispered, lips barely brushing her earlobe. "What we want isn't always good for us."  
  
His warm breath in her ear made her entire body twitch in a way that very nearly destroyed her ability to form a coherent sentence. "Professor," she said when the red and yellow patches had retreated from her peripheral vision and her breath had returned to nearly normal, "if you expect me to continue bantering for much longer, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."  
  
"Pity," he said in a disinterested tone. "Clearly, reading up on a subject isn't everything."  
  
Hermione felt a truly feral smile grip her features a moment before she dove in and proceeded to snog the living daylights out of her Potions professor. Apparently, he had a very similar idea, as her own living daylights were nearly out by the time she realized that her body still required oxygen in order to maintain consciousness.  
  
He took advantage of her disengagement to attack her neck with the voracity of a pack of werewolves under a full moon. She soon found herself underneath him on the bench, gasping for breath as competing impulses for breathing and shrieking ecstatically fought for control of her lungs. His lips were warm, but his kisses on her neck felt like tiny lightning strikes, each shorting out another section of her brain.  
  
Pulling together what rational thought still remained, she managed to say, "Don't you think the bed might be a better place to continue?"  
  
He blinked, bringing his eyes back into focus. "What? Oh, I suppose so."  
  
Feeling an unexpected surge of pride in seeing Snape looking so thoroughly kissed, she couldn't resist asking, "Does this mean I passed your oral exam, sir?"  
  
The soft curve of his swollen lips hardened as he pursed them suddenly. "What makes you think it's over?"  
  
"You mean, you want me to..." she trailed off, partially from embarrassment and partially in disappointment in such an obvious and crass tactic.  
  
He merely gestured to the bed. Honestly! One minute her heart was in time with his, and the next he was ordering her about with hand signals! She huffily tossed herself down on it and buried her face in the smooth cotton.  
  
He sat down next to her and slapped her bare behind hard enough to make her raise her head and glare at him. He began smoothing his hand over the abused cheek and chuckled. She looked at him curiously, and his expression became serious.  
  
"Miss Granger, if you wish to share my bed, I must make one thing abundantly clear. If you cannot bring yourself to ask for what you want, you are very unlikely to get it. Likewise, if there are activities or parts of you that you wish not to share with me, then you must tell me so clearly. If you wish me to treat you like an adult, then behave like one. Now that you know the rules, please explain why you are sulking on my bed."  
  
Somewhat nettled by his patronising, she snapped, "I'm not sulking, and I'm not afraid of the phrase 'oral sex,' I just hadn't expected you to really follow through with the oral exam idea. It seems, well, a bit trite."  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "If you think oral sex is trite, then your previous partners have done you a disservice. Now," he said, still gently massaging the flesh of her cheek with one hand, "if you are closing down that avenue of foreplay, it makes me curious as to what you had in mind for this evening's activities."  
  
She pressed herself into his hand. "Well, this is nice. More of this would be a good place to start."  
  
He obligingly released the clips that connected the backs of her stockings to the garter belt and began running his hands over both cheeks and the backs of her thighs. A satisfied hum began in the back of her throat. Encouraged, he released the straps on the outsides and insides of her thighs, giving him even greater access to the sensitive parts of her upper legs. She gave up on twisting around to watch him, and instead wriggled herself against those warm hands that made her skin tingle.  
  
She lifted her hips to give him access to the front garter clips, and before she realized what was happening, he had not only released the clips but also the garter belt itself. She gasped at the cool air on skin that had not been uncovered for days, but he quickly warmed it with his hands.  
  
"Please sir, the stockings."  
  
Rather than pull them off by the toe as she would have done, he carefully rolled one down her leg and tossed the neat torus of silk away. Curiosity and arousal were a fascinating combination, she thought as she rolled over on her back and raised her other leg, resting her ankle on his shoulder. She wanted to see his hands against her skin.  
  
He did not disappoint. With a bemused look at all that her position had to offer, he took the top of the stocking in his fingertips, carefully folded it over, and rolled it down her leg with such agonising slowness that by the time the second stocking joined its mate on the floor, she was about to hook her foot behind his neck and yank him down on top of her. As if sensing her intent, he grasped her ankle and began kissing it with equal parts lips and tongue.  
  
Her eyes rolled up into her head of her own accord, and she gasped. The hot mouth continued moving up her leg and was soon joined by his hands, whose palms seemed to have been replaced with white-hot steel. She silently begged him to bring his hands around to cup her rear, but he did not. Using the lightest of touches, he trailed his fingers and kisses up to the top of her thigh until she suddenly twitched away and slammed her legs together.  
  
Not even giving him a chance to make a cutting remark, she smiled apologetically. "It tickles."  
  
The down turned corners of his mouth relaxed at her explanation. "You really must learn to control yourself, Miss Granger," he said with a dramatic sigh. "Now, where were we?" He drew her thighs apart, opening her up to his fingers, which teased the inflamed flesh with more pressure so that it tickled less.  
  
It was lovely, but something was missing. She managed to tear her eyes away from his fingers to look at his face. He returned the quizzical look.  
  
"Yes, just like that," she said when his finger brushed a part of her that sent all of the muscles in her lower back into pleasant spasms, allowing her eyes to fall shut. "When you trace along the outside, yes, please don't stop, please- AAH!" She was quite unprepared for the first time his finger encountered the bundle of nerves she suspected he would find. She just managed to keep her legs from springing together again, but her eyes sprang open and she emitted a loud yelp. It was too much.  
  
"What is it now?" He straightened his robe with a savage yank.  
  
Ahah! That was it! She gestured towards his robe. "This isn't working for me."  
  
"It seemed to be working for you a moment ago."  
  
"That was before I realized that you're still completely covered up and I'm lying here with my nether regions in your face. Vino vendibili hedera suspensa nihil opus est." [A good wine needs no decorations (to attract drinkers)]  
  
The irritation on his face faded into amusement. "I see." He began to remove his robe, but she got up on her knees and stopped his hands.  
  
"No. Let me."  
  
She eased her hands into the vee over his chest, encountering smooth, warm skin and two very taut nipples. Good. She pinched them very gently, and felt the skin around them tighten. She then bent down to kiss the pale skin and eased the robe from his shoulders. The act revealed a slender body and nearly bare chest, with only a few dark hairs around his nipples. She began running her hands in circles over his skin, marvelling at the texture and warmth.  
  
At one point, he must have managed to disentangle his arms from the sleeves of the robe, because she suddenly found them around her, rubbing any and all bare skin that he could reach- her rear, her hips, her upper thighs. She was doing the same, palms stroking small circles on his firm flesh.  
  
Increasing the radius of her circles, she wrapped her arms around him to explore the skin of his back and sides. She quickly encountered the robe, which was still tied loosely around his waist. That would have to go. A few tugs on the back of the sash released the knot, and the robe fell loosely on the bed.  
  
Hermione half wished she had been able to see his entire body as the robe fell away, but she was far too distracted by the feel of his firm buttocks in her hands and the sudden pressure of his erect penis pressing against her stomach.  
  
They both gasped at the sudden contact and she drew back suddenly.  
  
Hermione drank in the sight before her, hardly daring to believe it was real. The flat plane of stomach below his navel was flanked by narrow hips, and an inverted vee of dark hair framed his erection, which twitched enthusiastically as she stared.  
  
She reached down to stroke the impossibly smooth skin of the tip, and he inhaled sharply through his nose. She grasped the shaft with one hand, and sent the other further south to cup his scrotum gently. He twitched away from her lower hand, and she hastily withdrew them both.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir. Was I too rough?"  
  
She had never seen such a blaze in his eyes before, but she couldn't read his expression as he drew back from her.  
  
"Vino vendibili hedera non opus est, Hermione," he said, allowing the second syllable of her name to scrape the bottom of his vocal register. Before his use of her name or his variation on the proverb had a chance to penetrate, his hands were on her, fumbling with the myriad hooks on her bustier as eagerly as a child ripping open birthday gifts. When he had tossed the restricting garment aside, Hermione filled her lungs with air only to have it expelled by a forceful embrace.  
  
Nearly overwhelmed by the sensation of full body contact, Hermione dragged him down to the bed. There were no limits to where their hands could go- the fingers that had formerly been overwhelming before were now part of a greater communion of flesh and heat. Legs and arms entwined, hips sought hips, and lips and tongues meshed in kisses that sent seismic waves through them both.  
  
At last, a well-aimed pelvic thrust on someone's part- they were never quite sure whose- catapulted them over the point of no return, beyond the burning bridge, into a place where nothing existed but bodies, sweat and sweet friction. When the culmination of their exploration lit the room with blinding flashes of mutual ecstasy, all thoughts fled their conscious minds, leaving nothing but physical aftershocks in their wake.  
  
Up in the Gryffindor Tower, four seventh year boys suddenly woke from vivid dreams to somewhat embarrassing messes.  
  
Albus Dumbledore glanced up from his pensieve at the sudden flash of light from a dingy plaque in an unlit corner of his office. He lifted his hot buttered rum in salute.  
  
"Well done, Miss Granger. Well done."  
  
~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Author's note: Dana and Jeff, O Glorious Betas, where would I be without you? With a much less cohesive story and a general feeling of dissatisfaction. I salute you both!  
  
Dearest readers, if I were you, there is no way I could forgive myself for posting this chapter three days late (my betas gave me too many things to fix), unless I had given myself something chocolaty or lemony to enjoy. Let me know if there were ample dashes of both.  
  
This isn't the end- there's more to come! Ten points to your house if you correctly guess what happened in Dumbledore's office in this chapter. ;) Thank you all so much for your reviews! 


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Absinthe of Reason  
  
Author: Mundungus42  
  
Rating: R, though this chapter sits solidly in the PG-13 category. More fluff to come if I can justify it to my perfectionist muse.  
  
Disclaimer: I have a pronounced fear of litigation and the brown dye they use on the bottoms of Twinkies to make it look like they were baked, so have no fear that I will claim ownership of anything Potter-related, attempt to profit from it, or serve Twinkies at my next soiree.  
  
***********************************  
  
It was nearing four-thirty in the morning when Severus twitched into wakefulness. The girl nestled next to him was still fast asleep. The lights in the room were still lit- neither of them had had the presence of mind nor inclination to extinguish them when they had fallen from their final round of enthusiastic lovemaking into sleep's embrace. Taking care not to wake her, he slid carefully from the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door.  
  
The lights in the room were unlit, but a soft light suffused the room, softening the stark white ceramic to a golden beige. He might have noticed this earlier had his bladder not been quite so full. When he went to wash his hands, the sight of his reflection in the mirror over the sink caused him to stop short.  
  
He was glowing. A steady golden light shone from his skin, forming a hazy aureole around his body. He raised a shaking hand to his face. His skin felt normal, but it was undoubtedly emitting light. The omnipresent shadows under his eyes were gone, gone the way of the exhausted creases at the corners of his mouth and the deep lines between his eyebrows. Hardly daring to believe what he saw in the mirror, he flung open the door to examine Hermione. She was still sleeping, and though the lit lamps disguised it upon first glance, she was glowing, too. She even shone faintly through the bed sheet, and between her fan of curls and dark lashes against her golden skin, she could have been the subject of a Klimt painting.  
  
As he allowed himself to drink in the woman in his bed, an odd sensation, like a lingering shiver, ran through him. He remembered the last time the sight of a sleeping woman had affected him so deeply, and cut off that line of thought with a forceful shake of his head. It was no use to dwell upon that particular part of the past.  
  
But the shivering sensation wouldn't go away- the longer he gazed, the more it grew in intensity until it was nearly painful. What was wrong with him?  
  
Unless... but that was impossible.  
  
Severus snatched his robe from where it had fallen on the floor of the room and fled into the bathroom. Whispering the password, a hidden door in the back of the linen cupboard opened to a narrow spiral staircase hewn from bedrock.  
  
His bare feet slipped once or twice on the increasingly damp stone as he tore downwards, but he didn't slow down. When he reached the bottom at last, he found himself in the Chamber of Secrets. Having been cleared of the basilisk carcass, Dumbledore had been quite delighted to find a new and larger storeroom for many of Hogwart's treasures and old furniture. Salazar Slytherin's enormous statue was now obscured by numerous tapestries, giving the awesome figure the suggestion of being dressed in a patchwork quilt. Severus wasn't positive who had put the sunglasses and bandana on the statue, but the ensemble had Filius Flitwick written all over it.  
  
He ran through the boxes and crates of bric-a-brac that made the terrifying Chamber resemble nothing so much as a giant flea market. He pushed aside a tapestry at the statue's feet and gasped out another password.  
  
The hidden door paid no heed to his urgent tone and slid aside with agonising slowness. Severus suspected it had never forgiven him for changing the password from Parseltongue to English.  
  
When the door had opened enough to allow him entrance, he lit the lamps with a frantic wave of his wand, and he began to search.  
  
Potter hadn't just discovered the Chamber of Secrets five years ago. He'd also inadvertently discovered Salazar Slytherin's long-lost private quarters. While Godric Gryffindor chose to make his home in the tallest liveable tower in the school, Slytherin had made his in the deepest dungeon. Whe he began teaching at Hogwarts, it was somewhat galling that the fellow heads of house had the option of living in their founders' luxurious quarters. I the situation was mildly improved by the fact that Minerva couldn't live in Gryffindor's either, since Albus refused to quit it when he was promoted to Headmaster. Still, visiting Filius's book-filled blue velveted pararise directly over the library's restricted section filled him with envy. He could have passed on Hufflepuff's bizarre mix of the bellicose and the twee in Sprout's armory-cum-cottage just off the entrance hall.  
  
When he had explored Slytherin's rooms shortly after they had been discovered, he found them too decadent and reptilian, even for his taste. They were also inconvenient to reach for someone who wasn't a parseltongue, even with the staircase Dumbledore had installed for his use and the password problem.  
  
After clearing one of the snake-adorned bookshelves, he climbed up on top and began searching among the hundreds of plaques, awards, and garish self- portraits that covered the walls. In case one hadn't figured it from the enormous statue, Salazar Slytherin had been a bit of an egotist - in the sense that Bellatrix Lestrange had been a bit mad.  
  
As the walls emptied and the piles of discarded plaques on the floor grew, Severus felt his frustration mounting. It had to be here! The memory of Gryffindor Stud plaque lurking in a corner of Albus's office still gave him pause. And the willies. "Really, Albus. George Honeyduke?" "Well Severus, you always knew I had a sweet tooth."  
  
Shaking that memory vigorously out of his head, he began searching even more wildly. And sure enough, a few minutes later, he saw it high over his head. He hadn't been quite sure what it would look like, but he knew instantly when he had found it. He could only read the lowest lines, but he knew that Lucius Malfoy's name had no business on any other plaque in Slytherin's private chambers.  
  
He summoned it quickly and clambered down to the floor. Once there, he cast a quick scourgify to rid it of all the tarnish. There, on a plate with the year 1979 engraved at the top were the following names:  
  
Rodolphus Lestrange – Narcissa Black  
  
Lucius Malfoy - Bellatrix Black  
  
Evan Rosier - Gideon Prewett  
  
Severus Snape - Hermione Granger  
  
Impossible.  
  
He had been so proud to have been included in the Slytherin Sybarite race. Up until the werewolf incident, he'd never had much prestige among his housemates. But getting Lupin and Black stripped of their Prefect privileges and Potter removed as Head Boy had raised his status significantly with Malfoy and the other popular boys.  
  
Rodolphus and Lucius had always had an unhealthy obsession with the Black sisters, and Severus didn't even want to know how they had later decided on their respective brides. He privately entertained thoughts of the two boys cutting cards for Bellatrix, vivacious and witty as she had been. Odd to think of Narcissa as a consolation prize, but in terms of pureblooded progeny, Lucius had certainly gotten the better half of the bargain.  
  
None of them had ever really been sure if Rosier had chosen Gideon Prewett because of his impressive bloodlines, his terrifying skill at arcane branches of magic, or because he was easily the best-looking boy at Hogwarts, but it proved very awkward later when Evan joined the Death Eaters and Gideon joined the Order of the Phoenix.  
  
Severus had chosen his intended mostly because he wanted to see the look on James Potter's face when word reached him of Severus's success. Lucius had called him a heartless bastard in tones that clearly indicated he wished he'd claimed he'd rather deflower a Mudblood over a girl he really liked.  
  
He'd had the perfect plan, too. After the werewolf incident, Potter's invisibility cloak had been entrusted to Filch, and Filch worshipped the ground Severus walked on for putting the Marauders at his mercy, detention- wise. It was only a matter of asking with the right degree of grovelling that secured him the cloak for the evening.  
  
Severus had followed her into the Head Girl's chambers, which were just off the Gryffindor common room and watched her prepare for bed. He had planned to surprise her by whispering to her just as she was beginning to drift off, then set his seduction into motion. She'd never be quite sure if it was a dream, and he would join the ranks of the Slytherin Sybarite. That's how it was supposed to happen. Lily Evans spoiled it by sitting up a moment after turning off the light and looking approximately in his directions  
  
"Well, are you going to just watch me sleep, or had you planned to do anything?" she asked.  
  
He froze.  
  
"I can hear your heart beating," she continued. "From how fast it's going, I should think you wanted to do a bit more than watch. So go on. Show yourself, and maybe you'll get what you want."  
  
He stifled a chuckle and modulated his tone to an unrecognisable whisper. "And maybe I'll get what I deserve."  
  
"Perceptive of you," she said tartly. "So take that dratted thing off, James. It's really very disconcerting to talk to the air."  
  
"I can't do that."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I'd rather we didn't talk."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Isn't that just typical. James Potter, if you think for an instant that I'd let you-"she cut off abruptly as Severus impulsively stepped forward and stroked her cheek.  
  
She leaned into his caress at first, but let out a cry of triumph and seized his wrist. "Well," she said in satisfied tones, "what are you going to do now?"  
  
"I'll consider the evening a success. You're touching me of your own free will."  
  
"Pretty words."  
  
"I'd follow them up with pretty actions, but you've got my wrist and I could get slapped."  
  
She smiled, pulling the invisibility cloak back to reveal his hand. Severus gulped as she ran her fingers over the palm.  
  
"So why did you sneak into my room?"  
  
What would Potter say? Probably something flippant and charming. "There's such a lovely view."  
  
In a flash, she had bent his index finger back nearly to the point of dislocation.  
  
"Not funny," she growled. "Give me a real answer or you'll never catch another snitch."  
  
"I wanted to kiss you goodnight," he gasped.  
  
She released his finger, but not his wrist. "Is that all?"  
  
"Well, no," he admitted, "but I'd rather be able to write my NEWTs without the use of a dictoquill than elaborate. And I do want to kiss you goodnight." He slid his other hand from inside the cloak and covered hers with it. Her skin was cool and soft.  
  
"Go on," she said, looking directly into the space where his face should have been. "What did you really want to do tonight? What did you want to do once I'd fallen asleep?"  
  
He considered another light response, but thought better of it, since her tone was still dangerous. "I just wanted to see you sleep."  
  
Her eyebrows drew together. "Never heard that one before."  
  
His fingers were irresistibly drawn to her proud chin. "It'd be the first time I've seen you with your guard down, Evans."  
  
She allowed his fingers to remain. "So it has to do with having my guard down, and not my knickers?"  
  
"Don't be an idiot," he said, stroking her cheek. "If I'd been after that I would have left after you got your nightgown on."  
  
"Pig," she said, closing her eyes and leaning into his hand. Her face was caught in a shaft of moonlight, and her pale red lashes shone gold.  
  
"C'mon, Evans," he said in what he hoped was a fair approximation of Potter's jovial, be-a-sport, tone. "Just one kiss and then I'll leave. Promise!"  
  
She opened her eyes to give him a withering look. "I'd rather you just watched me go to sleep."  
  
"Fair enough."  
  
"And then you promise to leave?"  
  
"I promise." She released his hand and began to slip under the blankets. He sat down on the side of the bed, but made no other move toward her.  
  
"If you dare try anything while I'm asleep, you'll regret it."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it."  
  
"You promise?"  
  
"I promise."  
  
With one last suspicious look, she lay down on her side and closed her eyes. "You're really weird, you know that?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Just as long as you know." She rolled over on the other side, sighed, and lay still. Severus listened as her breathing slowed. She was really falling asleep next to him! And she was supposed to be smart. Still, the trust was unusual, to say the least. And almost any girl would look as lovely in the moonlight that illuminated her features, even turning her freckles silver.  
  
"Hey, Potter." She was nearly asleep; her voice had a tiny, singsong quality that was a bit disconcerting.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It feels safe to sleep near you."  
  
His impulse to laugh derisively was cut off by curiosity. "It does?"  
  
"Mmmm. A comforting presence. You can give me a goodnight kiss if you want."  
  
He leaned forward and chastely kissed her cheek. And on an impulse, he stroked the soft, fine hair at her temples.  
  
"Again." She did not ask.  
  
The second kiss lingered- he gave his lips the opportunity to savour the soft skin of her cheek.  
  
"Again." She turned over to face him and opened her eyes.  
  
All thoughts of seduction and the competition flew from his mind and gravity took over. All that existed was her warm mouth, her arm snaking its way around his invisible body, and her other hand disappeared into the cloak's hood to stroke his invisible face.  
  
She stiffened, and he pulled back.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"You're not wearing glasses."  
  
Idiot!  
  
"I- er-"  
  
"Sirius?"  
  
"Of course not!" he spat.  
  
She laughed at his vehemence, and with relief. "Thank God. But then- oh don't tell me. I really don't want to know." She flopped back down on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. "I think you should leave now"  
  
Severus opened and closed the door without a word, but stood and watched.  
  
Lily sat up in bed, cocking an ear toward the door. "Are you really gone?"  
  
He made no reply.  
  
She lay back in bed with an irritated noise. "Just like him to show up with no glasses- so sure he'll be invited to stay the night!" She put her fingers to her lips. "Arrogant, fatheaded idiot," she muttered, and nestled her head into the pillow with a small smile.  
  
He stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe as she dozed off.  
  
She wasn't lovely when she slept. She tossed and turned, her hair a dark red squirrel's nest before long, and she ground her teeth. But that night, watching her sleep, something stirred deeply in Severus Snape. It wasn't love, but it was something.  
  
And that nighttime vigil had been the end of it. His Slytherin Sybarite efforts were interrupted by Potter and Evans's whirlwind romance and engagement, the NEWTs, his initiation into the Death Eaters, the Potters' wedding, and ultimately by Voldemort's visit to their home.  
  
He had never told the others that he had failed to fulfil his quest. True, he hadn't told them he had succeeded. They had drawn their own conclusions from the circumstantial evidence that Severus had tossed their way. In retrospect, he suspected that this dishonesty had brought the curse down upon him in full force.  
  
From what Dumbledore had told him about the Gryffindor Stud competition, it differed from the Slytherin incarnation in two key respects. First off, there could be as many Sybarites as entrants and only one Stud. The other difference was the curse. It was not dissimilar to an alcohol-bound oath like Hermione's, only more devious and subtle in nature. It didn't end or destroy a person's life; it just made things unpleasant.  
  
Severus wasn't sure if his string of bad fortune started the night he had misled his housemates or on the day that his intended died for her infant son, but he felt its presence constantly over the years, as though it were a vulture sitting on his shoulder. The subtle nature of the curse was such that he could never be sure exactly how much of his unhappiness and bad luck could be attributed to his own decisions, and how much could be blamed on the curse. He did come to realize that the curse had a very dark sense of humour.  
  
He wasn't surprised that Lucius, Rodolphus, or Evan had let slip to Voldemort, who was Slytherin's heir, after all, that they had all participated in a Slytherin Sybarite competition. He was, however, taken aback when Voldemort honoured him especially for such a precocious act against a Mudblood. If that weren't ironic enough, the "special honour" granted by the Dark Lord was to be at his side during that evening's attack on the Potters.  
  
In his moments of black humour, it pleased him to think that Voldemort's first downfall been caused, in part, by the Slytherin curse. Had Voldemort simply incapacitated Lily instead of killing her, not only would Voldemort have succeeded in his attempt to kill Potter the Younger, Severus still would have had a chance to fulfil his oath. However, the dark parts of his conscience nagged him that if he had fulfilled his promise to begin with instead of lying about it, many things in his life might have been quite different.  
  
It was the same little voice that pointed out the internal logic problems with Voldemort and the Death Eaters shortly after he joined; the voice that prodded him to apply futilely for the Defence post; the voice that made him dissatisfied with his place the world and his fortunes, but unable to do a thing about them.  
  
And so he had resigned himself to his lot, bound to unfulfillment with a heavy-handed sense of irony, having failed in his vow to make love to an intelligent, ambitious Gryffindor.  
  
Until tonight, when Hermione Granger had somehow taken Lily's place.  
  
Severus sank down on the floor, half gazing at the name on the plaque, and half gazing at his glowing face reflected in the silver plaque.  
  
***********************************  
  
End Notes: My dear readers, please accept my deepest apologies for allowing so much time to elapse between postings. Suffice it to say, this chapter was giving me quite a bit of trouble. Several reviewers had asked for some of Snape's point of view, and darn it, they're right. To continue from Hermione's perspective would leave out an important aspect of this story, namely "what is Snape's deal?" Besides, I had this great (or so I modestly thought) back story that I wanted to share. Implausible it may be, though I would argue no more so than the original challenge. Extended denoument in the next (and final) chapter.  
  
Huge thanks to those kind enough to write me with the gentle nudges requisite to getting this chapter polished, buffed, and posted, and also to Dana my gamma-beta reader who provided less gentle nudges :) Hugs to my beloved grammarian and alpha-beta reader Jeff. 


	8. Chapter 8

Title: The Absinthe of Reason

Author: Mundungus42

Rating: R, though the ending has a very high exposition-to-nookie ratio. Darn my loose ends!

Disclaimer: As to ownership, I claim nil. As to excuses for what took me so darned long to finish this story, please see the end notes. Here we go! The last chapter!

No sooner had she drifted into wakefulness than Hermione immediately sensed that there was something odd. Her eyes flew open, taking in the conspicuously empty section of bed next to her.

She ran her hand over the sheet where he had lain. It was cold.

More curious than concerned, she slipped out of bed to examine the room more closely. The room was not quite unchanged, as she had thought upon first glance. The robe that she vaguely remembered tossing in the vicinity of the armchair was no longer there, and the bathroom door, which had been closed, was ajar.

She made her way toward the bathroom, bare feet whispering over the thick carpet, and glanced into the dark room.

Immediately, she noticed that there seemed to be a light coming from somewhere behind her. She turned to look, but saw nothing. Upon returning her glance to the pale porcelain tile, she noticed the glowing face in the mirror and stopped short.

The word 'afterglow' absurdly insinuated itself in her mind, and she stifled a giggle. She found by pivoting in front of the mirror that it wasn't just her face that was luminous. She was lighting up the bathroom like a lantern.

Well, it was better than having cat ears and whiskers.

She splashed some water on her face, and went back into the bedroom to look for signs of Severus. From the bathroom door, she could see a crack of light beneath the door that led to his study and laboratory.

She wrapped herself in a blanket that was neatly folded over the back of the chair and opened the door slowly.

The bookcase swung as silently as it had before, so she had a moment to observe him unnoticed. He sat in a chair by the fire, a small glass of amber spirits on the table next to him. From the undisturbed condensation on the glass and lack of ice, she concluded that he had not touched it after sitting. He still wore the robe that he had retrieved from the bedroom floor, and was seated on the edge of the chair, elbows on knees, chin resting on his interlaced fingers. His eyes seemed to have retreated to the shelter of his furrowed eyebrows, where they reflected the fire's dying embers. Though he, too, was emitting light, his visage and posture belied dark thoughts.

She closed the door a little more noisily than she had opened it. When he turned to face her, he straightened in his chair, and the brooding look vanished into familiar annoyance.

"What is it, Granger?"

"We appear to be glowing."

"Ten points to your house for that astute observation."

"I haven't got a house anymore, Severus," she said, crossing to wet bar and poured herself some of the heavenly-smelling Scotch he had left out.

"That is why I felt comfortable rewarding them. I learned long ago that the point-tally hourglasses have no sense of irony. Now go back to bed and leave me in peace."

"I'm not tired."

He had turned his scowl to the fire once more, but he seemed infinitesimally less tense. It was a start. She wasn't about to ask what was troubling him, since she could partially guess the reason. She also suspected that he needed time to pull his thoughts together.

She slid herself into the opposite chair and took a sip of the liquor, allowing the evaporated alcohol to swirl up through her sinuses. Lovely, fragrant, fruity head- aged in a port barrel, most likely. She sighed in satisfaction, stretching her legs closer to the fire and loosening some of the stiffness caused by the night's activities. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye, and she met his sidelong glance with slightly raised eyebrows. He returned his gaze to the fire and she to her drink.

After a minute or so of silence, he spoke.

"I suppose I ought to return to bed. I am quite cross when I lack sleep."

Hermione wondered what "quite cross" was next to his normal temper, but opted for diplomacy. "I doubt either of us will be able to sleep much. It's difficult when one's eyelids are glowing."

A nearly invisible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I would imagine so."

Who was this bland commentator and where was Severus?

"You're remarkably blasé about all of this," she said, holding a luminous hand aloft.

"Surprise is a useless emotion. But you'll be gratified to know that I have deduced the reason for our current state of illumination."

She couldn't resist. "Magic?"

He frowned. He might have lacked sleep, but something was definitely bothering him. "Granger, if you're depriving me of badly needed sleep just to pester me with feeble attempts at humour, then-"

"I'm sorry, Severus," she interrupted, quickly crossing to his chair. "I'm just not quite sure how to react. I am listening. Please continue." She sat on the floor at his feet, resting her free elbow next to his leg on the seat.

He looked down at her suspiciously, but relented when she set down her glass to rub his bare calf. He turned his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. "What do you know about the history of the Gryffindor Stud competition?"

"There's a history?"

He met her gaze sharply, and she found surprise, disbelief, and amusement there. "Can it be true?" he asked apostrophically. "There are aspects of Hogwarts history she hasn't studied?"

She batted his knee with her open palm.

"Claws in, you cat," he said, seizing her hand and idly tracing the tendons with his finger. Good. He was in good spirits, just preoccupied. He lapsed into thoughtful silence, his finger against her skin his only movement.

While this was well and good, he had a great deal of explaining to do about the Gryffindor Stud competition.

"So are you going to tell me about it, or are you going to make me go to the library at five-thirty in the morning?"

"I'm sure Madame Pince has seen you there at odder hours, though doubtfully in such a charming state of dishabille. But I hardly think it necessary. You will find no trace of its chequered history there."

Remembering his boast about his own library, she smiled wickedly. "Does this mean you keep great tales of Gryffindor lore in your private collection?"

He snorted. "Great tales of Gryffindor? I don't own any historical fiction."

She ignored him. "So am I to conclude from your snide hinting that Neville Longbottom didn't come up with the Gryffindor Stud idea on his own?"

"If you were still a student, I'd deduct points from Gryffindor. Has Longbottom ever been that creative? I have it on good authority that his Grandmother was in the running for Gryffindor Stud during her tenure at Hogwarts, so I'm assuming that's where he got the idea."

Hermione remembered the imposing matriarch she'd encountered at St. Mungo's during her fifth year. She hardy seemed like the type who could be refused much of anything.

"She was in the running but didn't win?"

"I believe your head of house was the winner that year."

Ah. Oh dear. "How do you know all this?"

"The Headmaster keeps a record of the competition winners in his office."

She thought about this for a moment. "Why didn't he mention this to me?"

"I'm sure he thought you knew. I certainly did."

"So is that why you believe we're glowing? Something to do with the Stud of Gryffindor competition?"

He hesitated a fraction of a second and looked back into the fire. "In part, I believe."

In part? What other magic had been in play? Oh. "The alcohol."

"I believe that was another part, yes."

He closed his eyes, yet the creases between his eyebrows remained.

"There's more?"

He sighed, a desolate sound. "That's the part I have difficulty explaining, Hermione." He took a deep breath. "For at least as long as the Gryffindor Stud competition has been in existence, so has a similar competition in the Slytherin house. Many years ago, when I was a student, I was involved with the Slytherin competition, but was unable to successfully woo my intended, because Voldemort killed her."

"Did you love her?"

"Oh for Merlin's sake, don't be so maudlin," he snapped. "I was sixteen. She wasn't even my type then. She was merely a challenge with further benefits if I succeeded."

Oh. That's friendly.

"And save your disapproval for someone capable of feeling remorse," he said, correctly interpreting the look on her face. "My motives are immaterial. All that matters is that she died, but somehow, my experiences with you have ended my obligation."

"_What?"_

"Look over there," he said, gesturing to a plaque above the fireplace that hadn't been there a few hours ago. "The 1979 competition will be of particular interest."

It appeared to be fairly unremarkable as plaques went- dusty wood with tarnished silver plates- until she picked it up. Not only had it remarkable heft – the wood must have been oak or ironwood- it practically vibrated with magic. She nearly dropped it.

She steadied herself and rubbed away the dust on the top edge with a corner or her blanket. From that angle, she noticed that the back of the plaque was not completely flat. The wood had been carved into an undulating wave pattern that lay relatively flat when it was against the wall. Odd.

She turned the plaque over to examine the face. The words "Slytherin Sybarite" were lettered in silver at the top. She hid a smile. The plaques listed winners from 1919 to the present (Tuppy Smythe-Pilchard through Marcus Flint). She skimmed the plaque, eyes coming to rest on the competitors for 1979. Prewett, she vaguely remembered, was a late member of the Order, and she knew Lestrange, Malfoy, and the Blacks rather too well for her liking.

And now, herself and Severus. She shivered.

"How is this possible?"

Severus glared at her disapprovingly. "Didn't you hear me? I don't know why it happened, though I strongly suspect that our current state of illumination is due in no small part to it."

She gazed at the plaque a moment longer, then walked thoughtfully back to his chair but did not sit. She felt his eyes on her and lifted her gaze to meet his. He was searching her face for any kind of reaction.

She was surprised to feel tears stinging the back of her eyes. "And what does this mean to you?"

He swallowed. "One aspect of the Slytherin competition is a gaes, a sort of curse for those that don't fulfil their obligation to the great history of the house. Tonight, the curse, which has been with me for nearly twenty years, has been lifted."

She felt a tear slide down her cheek, but held his gaze. He stood, raised his hand to her cheek, and wiped the tear away with his thumb.

"The more important question, my dear, is what all of this means to you."

She gave a watery smile and leaned into him. "I've wanted this for so long; there's no question that I want to be with you. But I don't want you to be with me just because you feel obligated to me."

He sighed melodramatically. "Hermione, I'm now freer to choose than I have been in the last twenty years. If you're going to feel anxiety over what's between us, let it be over something real."

A giggle jumped improbably into her throat, and she regarded him with a wry smile. "All right, I'll worry about the fact that I've taken the place of some girl you weren't really all that interested in. A 'challenge with benefits,' you called her, I believe."

"You are most certainly challenging," he said with a scowl that fooled her no more than it fooled him.

"Then it's up to you to take full advantage of the benefits," she replied, pressing her lips to his neck.

He disengaged himself and opened the hidden bookcase door. "I had hoped to reap the benefits of more sleep," he said, with a half-quelling glance in her direction.

Undaunted, she followed him back into the bedroom. "What if I promised that deferring that particular benefit would be to your best advantage?"

"Then, Miss Granger," he said, allowing his robe to fall to the floor, "I would advise you to take the school's motto more to heart."

She unrepentantly ran her hands up his warm sides. "_Draco_ you may be, but _dormiens_ you are not. And since I know no proverbs about tickling conscious dragons, I will have to use my own experience to guide me."

She felt his abdominal muscles resist the tickling, but he finally gave in and seized her hands in his. He kissed her fiercely, pulling them both down on to the bed.

"You are, without a doubt, the single most provoking woman I have ever met."

She smiled, dropping kisses down his chest and stomach. She paused a moment before brushing her tongue against the head of his penis.

He inhaled sharply, and jerked against her lips. "I thought you weren't interested in an oral examination."

"It would be a real shame," she said, having run the blade of her tongue down its length, "if all that studying I did had no practical application."

Severus leaned back against the headboard and folded his arms behind his head. "I quite agree. Carry on, Miss Granger."

When Hermione finally made her way to the Great Hall for lunch, her glowing skin had faded enough that it wouldn't be noticed in daylight, but she couldn't prove that she wasn't floating. The hall buzzed with conversation, and Ginny waved at her from her usual seat. However, when she passed the Slytherin table, Millicent gave Pansy a nudge. Pansy turned around and grinned so broadly that Hermione almost didn't recognize her.

Too euphoric to do otherwise, Hermione returned the grin. The other Slytherins looked at her curiously, except Draco Malfoy, who seemed to be sitting by himself and focused completely on his bowl of mush.

No hissing, no insults, no sycophantic laughter. And did Millicent just _wink_ at her?

She made her way to the Gryffindor table and was greeted by her housemates. She sat down between Ginny and Dennis Creevy.

"Morning, Ginny. Morning, Dennis."

"Morning, Hermione. You haven't seen Harry and Ron today, have you?"

"No, I just got out of bed."

"Really? I thought you'd be in the library."

"I had a bit of a lie in today. I was up late last night."

Ginny gave her a suspicious look. "Neville was looking for you last night when he got back from detention. He checked the library and your room and couldn't find you anywhere."

"Well that's because I was with Professor Snape."

"Honestly, Hermione," piped up Dennis, "I've never seen such a glutton for punishment as you."

Hermione smiled in a way that she hoped would appear less sphinx-like than it felt. "It's nothing like you'd expect, Colin." She turned to Ginny. "So where is Neville?"

"Funny you should ask," said Ginny. "I haven't seen any of the seventh year boys today, except for Dean."

"Where is he?"

"Meeting with Professor Sinistra. He said he'd be there until supper." She chewed thoughtfully on a bite of toast. "So, do you know what's going on with the Slytherins? They seem- well, normal today."

"No idea."

"You mean you haven't heard?" Dennis's eyes were enormous.

The girls turned to him.

Unlike her brother, Ginny swallowed her food before speaking. "What are you talking about, Dennis?"

"Well, I don't know that much," he said, flushing with excitement, "but I would have thought you two would know more than me, not less."

Honestly! Hermione spoke in her plummiest Head Girl tones."Out with it, Dennis!"

"Well," said Dennis, with a surreptitious look at the Slytherin table, "it all started late last night after curfew. Neville and I had snuck into the Room of Requirement to map out new beater strategy. We were nearly done when the door opened, and in walked none other than Draco Malfoy."

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Malfoy? What did he want?"

"Well, I couldn't say exactly, but I was immediately suspicious for two reasons. First, he didn't have Crabbe and Goyle with him."

"And the second?"

Dennis grinned. "The moment he stepped into the room, the table that Neville and I had been using turned into a large bed with two pairs of manacles on one end. What's more, a rack appeared with all kinds of weird leather, rubber, and metal things that I guess you're supposed to wear."

The girls stared at him for a moment.

"That kinky little weasel!" exclaimed Ginny, at last. "Was he really trying to- well, you know- with you and Neville?

"Not me and Neville," Dennis said, trailing off suggestively.

With a start, Hermione realized that Malfoy must have been meeting with Harry and Ron. She mentally chided them for choosing such an obvious place for a rendezvous, not to mention a lover with tastes far more exotic than she suspected either of them would be comfortable with, especially for a first encounter.

She tried unsuccessfully to change the subject. "The porridge is awfully thin today, isn't it?"

Ginny ignored her. "Who were they meeting?"

"You'll never guess!"

"Dennis," said Ginny, invoking her mother's deadliest voice, "if you don't finish this story soon, I'm going to dump this oatmeal over your head!"

Dennis spoke very quickly. "Neville and I saw Pansy Parkinson and Milicent Bulstrode in the hallway outside!"

"Malfoy, Parkinson and Bulstrode? I'm going to be sick!"

"No, no, no," protested Dennis. "That's what Neville thought at first, but then Millicent pulled out a camera, a quill, and some ink and winked at us. They weren't meeting him, they were ambushing him."

Ginny and Hermione started at Dennis with identical looks of unadulterated shock.

"But Malfoy is the Slytherin poster boy," protested Ginny. "Why on earth would two girls from his own house- oh."Ginny nodded slowly.

"Exactly, said Dennis, grinning. "Draco's treated Pansy like a lapdog for the past four years, and he smeared Millicent for pinning him when they tried to form a Grappling Club to take on the D.A. I guess they finally got a bit of their own back."

"I'll say," said Ginny. "Looks like everyone in Slytherin got a bit of their own back."

Hermione was looking thoughtfully at the Slytherin table. "Makes you wonder how many of the Slytherins only tolerated Malfoy because he had something on them."

Ginny burst out laughing. "Imagine if Pansy and Millicent's foremost thoughts were to catch Draco Malfoy in an awkward position when they entered the Room of Requirement..." she trailed off in giggles.

"Hoist with his own petard," said Dennis, clearly savouring the story. "And maybe the Slytherin lot aren't all bad if they shunned Malfoy rather than be tarred with the same brush."

Ginny continued to question Dennis, but Hermione's mind was whirling.

Obviously, Malfoy thought he was meeting Harry and Ron. Even Malfoy wasn't narcissistic enough to think Parkinson and Bulstrode would honestly be interested in him, after the way he treated them. But how did Pansy and Mil find out the location of their intended rendezvous, unless the boys had tipped them off? And why on earth would Harry and Ron sabotage their own Gryffindor Stud efforts?

Hermione finished her meal in thoughtful silence, or as thoughtful as she could be, considering the rapidity with which Dennis's story was making its way down the Gryffindor table. Food was flying out of people's faces with the force of one of Ginny's bat bogey curses.

First order of business: find the boys. They had some explaining to do.

They weren't in the library, the Great Hall, or the common room, and Hermione was beginning to get worried. She made her way up to the seventh year boys' dormitory at the top of the staircase.

She put her ear to the door and sighed with relief and annoyance. She could make out the boys' voices, but not distinct words. She raised a hand and knocked. They stopped speaking abruptly. She knocked again.

"Who is it?" Ron's voice was oddly hesitant.

"It's Hermione."

"Finally!" exclaimed Ron with obvious relief. "What took you so long?" He released several locking spells on the inside of the door and threw it open.

Hermione choked. A large scarlet V was emblazoned on Ron's forehead.

"Nice to see you too," he snapped, locking the door behind her.

The boys were all sitting on Harry's bed, all sporting identical Vs.

"We've been waiting for you for ages," said Seamus. "Didn't you get the note I pushed under your door?"

"-Er, no. I haven't been to my room since yesterday evening."

Ron wrinkled his nose. "Promise never to tell me anything about it."

"Fair enough." She took her place in the circle, glancing at each of the boys in turn. She savagely stifled a giggle. "Well, what happened?"

The boys looked to Harry, who seemed to have been elected speaker. He gestured awkwardly at the mark on his forehead, which rendered his scar nearly invisible. "Well, we hoped that you might be able to help us figure that out. But first things first: you're claiming the Stud of Gryffindor title, right?"

"Right."

"So that's why we're marked and you're not."

"We don't know that for sure," she protested. "It could have been a prank on all of the Seventh Year boys. I didn't see Dean at lunch. Did he have the virgin mark on his forehead, too?"

Ron's ears turned as scarlet as the mark on his forehead. "_Virgin_ mark?"

Seamus looked furious. "So that's why that big bollix was laughing!"

"Well," said Hermione reasonably, "what else would a big V stand for?"

"Very handsome?" Harry suggested hopefully.

"We thought it was supposed to be a five," said Neville.

Seamus frowned. "Dean said something about a Rocky Pitcher Show. Did any of you lot know what the flying arse he was talking about?"

The other boys shrugged.

"It's all right, Seamus. Dean probably thought it was some great lads' night lark. He was probably with Ginny all night anyway. Speaking of which, you can't stay in here forever. She's already noticed that you're all in hiding."

"Well bully for Ginny," said Harry sarcastically. "All we have to do get rid of the marks, which, incidentally, are immune to every spell we've tried."

"You've tried vanishing them?"

"We're not first years anymore, Hermione. Of course we tried."

"I know you're no longer first years, Ron. You would have vanished your own heads back then. I supposed you tried all the cleansing and restoration spells, then?"

"Every one we could find," said Neville glumly. "Harry even used his invisibility cloak to look in the library for books on the subject, and none of the spells worked."

"Well, then, what we need is an expert on this sort of thing."

The boys looked at her with varying degrees of exasperation.

"And where do you suggest we find such an expert?" asked Seamus sarcastically.

"Leave it to me," she said, remembering the plaque in Dumbledore's office. "I think I've also got a quick fix for your V problem."

Ron sniggered. Hermione hit him.

"Seriously, I think it'll work for the short term."

"What kind of fix is it?"

"Clinique."

"Fair play to you," said Seamus, grinning.

"Right," said Ron. "Hermione's taking care of the Vs, and we aren't bound to do anything else, right?"

The pathetic image of Draco Malfoy slumped over his lunch sprang into Hermione's mind. "Why wouldn't you?"

"Well, we went after our loves, didn't we? That's all we had to do." Ron's eyes were averted. "Harry and I decided we weren't interested in Malfoy anymore."

""Honestly, Ron, you were completely lovesick. What on earth could have possibly changed your mind?"

All eyes were turned to Ron, who squared his shoulders. "I think it was two things, really. First, when Harry and I asked Malfoy to meet us at the room of requirement, he wasn't happy about it."

"But he agreed to meet you, didn't he?"

"It's not that he was reluctant, he was too excited, and not in good way. I don't reckon he could be with us us in a way that didn't involve humiliating us- and Harry agreed," he tacked on belatedly.

Introspection from Ron? Would wonders never ceace? "And the second reason?"

"Well," said Ron flushing darker, "after a week of not speaking, we simultaneously came to the conclusion that maybe it wasn't Malfoy we fancied, itwaseachother" Ron trailed off, but his words were unmistakable.

The sudden silence was broken by a loud cackle from Neville.

"HA!" he cried, "I _knew_ it! As soon as I saw Mil and Pansy last night, I knew you'd set them up! I mean, sorry, it's not you that's funny. It was dead brilliant the way you set him up."

"And I knew it from the sounds coming from Harry's bed last night," commented Seamus. "I had to transfigure my slippers into earplugs."

Harry looked outraged. "I cast the silencing charm myself! How could you have possibly heard-"he cut off abruptly when Seamus burst out laughing.

"I was fast asleep. I didn't know you'd done anything until now."

"You're a bastard, Finnegan," pronounced Ron solemnly. "Why weren't you out with Padma last night instead of eavesdropping on a fellow?"

Seamus shrugged. "Padma's nice and all, but she reminds me a bit too much of Parvati. Giggling and all that."

Hermione threw her hands in the air. "I honestly don't understand you people."

"Well, it's just like studying, in a way," said Neville, thoughtfully. "Some people thrive on it, some don't need it, and some," he glanced at Seamus, "could care less, really, as long as they're enjoying themselves."

"But, to extend your questionably relevant metaphor, when one is in school, isn't learning as much as possible the whole point?"

Neville stared off into space, Ron and Harry looked at each other with palpable heat, and Seamus shrugged.

She tutted. Boys.

When the boys' foreheads were suitably covered with foundation, Hermione made her way to the gargoyle outside the Headmaster's door. Before she had even started guessing the password, the door swung open, and Dumbledore ushered her into his office.

"Come in my dear, and congratulations!" He offered her a handsome set of Cronk's Candy Marbles ("Don't take them for granite!").

She took an aggie and stuck it in her cheek, but cut straight the point. "How did you know?"

Dumbledore beamed at her somewhat lopsidedly on account of the shooter on which he was sucking. "My plaque, of course. It lit up like a clabbert's forehead last night around midnight, and as you can see," he gestured to a grimy-looking plaque in the corner. "Your name and Severus's have been preserved for future Gryffindor Studs.'

Feeling an unshakeable sense of deja vu, she walked over to the tarnished plaque in the corner. It bore an unmistakable resemblance to the Slytherin plaque, only with the words "Bum gall unwaith-hynny oedd "in small gold letters at the bottom. Bum, indeed. Gryffindor must have had more in common with today's students than just bravery.

She saw more names she recognized on the Gryffindor plaque, like Kingsley Shacklebolt's, though there were also a number she preferred not to think of in those terms, like Alastor Moody's. But inevitably her eyes came to rest on her own name, linked to Severus's in proud letters.

Impulsively, she pulled the plaque from the wall. It had the same aura of old magic as the Slytherin plaque, though the plates were tarnished brass. While rubbing absently at the brass plates, she nearly missed the familiar waved pattern on the back of the plaque. But there it was.

Dumbledore came to stand beside her, radiating avuncular pride. "In accordance with tradition, the plaque is now yours to keep, Miss Granger. Percival Weasley, the most recent recipient, was kind enough to leave it for me, but you are permitted to display it wherever you wish."

"I don't have any desire to move it, sir, though I would like to borrow it for a day or so, if you don't mind." She pressed her fingers into the waved back, to reassure herself that she hadn't invented them.

"Very generous of you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore replied. "But on to business matters."

Hermione took a deep breath and was about to ask the Headmaster about the boys' marks, but he continued.

"Of course, your name has already been added to the books of the Lion and Lioness Society, which is made up entirely of Gryffindor Studs. I'm sure Minverva will be pleased as a plimpy at high tide to have another female on board."

"But sir-"

"The timing is really quite fortuitous, you know. We are set to have a vote next week for the theme for our annual fundraising ball. We had planned to give the proceeds to St. Mungo's, but this year the board decided that the House Elf Relocation Project and Elysian Sanctuary is a far needier cause."

HERPES? This was getting ridiculous. "Headmaster, I really don't think-"

"There's no need to thank me, Miss Granger. You've become part of a long and glorious tradition- one as nearly as old as the school itself. It has survived where other ancient forms of competition have fallen by the wayside. I credit its hardiness to the fact that this competition, though seemingly a bit rude on the surface, requires of its participants the kind of bravery and determination that Godric Gryffindor prized in his students. And if I may say so, I was not at all surprised to find that you were this year's winner. You are a most welcome addition to our little club."

Ridiculous as it sounded, she was curious. "What does being a member of the Lion and Lioness Society entail? Is it like being in the Order of the Phoenix?"

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Not exactly. The Order functions as a branch of vigilante intelligence in times of need. The Society, on the other hand, exists mostly for more for the pleasure of its members. Though we do host philanthropic events, our meetings are more of a chance for us to let our hair down a bit, so to speak."

Hermione really didn't want to picture Percy Weasley letting his hair down. "That's all?"

The Headmaster twinkled insinuatingly. "I find that being able to truly enjoy leisure time makes me able to work all the harder when necessary. For example, to celebrate the completion of the Mundungus Fletcher Memorial High Security Ward for the Terminally Lightfingered at St. Mungo's, the Society took all of its members on holiday to Club Med-"

"Headmaster," she exclaimed, exasperated, "I couldn't care less about fundraising balls or holidays at Club Med. The only thing that I want take from this fiasco is my relationship with Professor Snape."

"Oh," said the Headmaster, deflating a little.

She regretted her words instantly, though she did mean them. Any society whose members were admitted solely for seducing someone faster than anyone else seemed inherently frivolous and arbitrary. But she certainly didn't want to offend any institution that included two of her favourite professors.

"I don't mean to be rude, sir, but I've got the rest of my higher education ahead of me, and I don't know that I'll have spare time to commit to the Society at this point in time. Besides, since I stumbled into the competition without really grasping what it meant, it doesn't feel right to reap all of these benefits from it until I've earned them somehow."

Dumbledore looked slightly confused. "If you aren't interested in the Lion and Lioness Society, then to what do I owe the honour of your visit?"

She blinked in surprise. "Well, Headmaster," she drawled, borrowing Severus's intonation, "I see your name on this plaque as well. I'm sure you can guess the reason."

Dumbeldore looked at the plaque for a moment, then laughed merrily. "On behalf of your housemates, I shouldn't wonder."

"How did your fellow entrants take care of their scarlet letters?"

"The same as most- the marks will fade in a day or so. Your housemates are fortunate to have been stricken over a weekend. I believe the unsuccessful Gryffindor Stud entrants of 1925 were sporting their Vs on graduation day."

"They didn't cover them with Muggle makeup?"

"Those were somewhat less enlightened times, Miss Granger. Not only were there no female participants that year, all of the boys were from old pureblooded families. A lesson about diversity was learned that year, to be sure."

"Well, that's a relief. I'm sorry to have troubled you for nothing, Headmaster."

"Not nothing, Miss Granger. It seems that your housemates are not the only one to have marks from their experiences."

Her hand flew self-consciously to her neck before she realized that he probably meant the glow.

Dumbledore smiled shrewdly, but did not comment on her lapse. "I have studied the Gryffindor Stud competition far more than the average entrant-" Hermione guessed this was her way of telling her he was the foremost authority, "-but I can honestly say I've never heard of a winner who was so lit from within."

Not wishing to betray Severus's confidence, she answered somewhat evasively. "I imagine there were other factors in play."

"Perhaps," said the Headmaster thoughtfully, "though I hope you do not assume yours was the only group of Gryffindor Stud hopefuls to be bound by an alcohol vow."

"But perhaps my group were the only one in recent memory," she commented blandly, calling his bluff.

The Headmaster smiled, somewhat ruefully – so far as she could tell, since the large candy marble was still in his cheek. "Perhaps. And perhaps one day you will be able to tell me how you managed to pull it off."

"I can tell you that now, sir. Inter-house alliances and exciting underwear."

Dumbledore's craggy brows were in danger of merging with his hairline. "You're not serious."

She stared demurely at her hands but felt the lascivious grin that had been with her since the previous evening grow dangerously close to the surface. Her headmaster let out a distinctly undignified guffaw.

"Well, Miss Granger, appearances can certainly be deceiving. I never would have thought Severus was a closet sensualist. If I had, I would have lent you my special earmuffs. But," he said with a chuckle, "it seems that you hardly needed my help." The Headmaster absently filled his cheeks with more candy marbles and sighed contentedly. "Very well, Miss Granger," he said with deliberate enunciation, "do let me know if you change your mind about the Lion and Lioness Society."

"I will Headmaster," she said, pulling the heavy plaque from its resting place. "I'll have this back to you in a few days. Thank you for your help."

The Headmaster stuffed the last candy marble into his mouth and waved her away cordially.

She found Severus mashing agave leaves in his private laboratory.

"Do you ever knock?"

"No." She said tersely, making a beeline for the plaque on his mantle. She set the Gryffindor plaque next to the Slytherin plaque and stared at the two. They were exactly the same size and shape.

Severus had come up behind her, wiping his hands on a heavily stained rag. He snorted when he saw the Gryffindor plaque.

"Do you notice anything odd about the dates on these plaques?" Hermione asked him.

"Not really. There doesn't seem to be a pattern for how much time elapses between competitions."

"I mean, why aren't all the winners listed? There had to have been hundreds of competitions over the years, but we can only see the recent ones."

"I had assumed that other plaques with the previous winners were elsewhere in the castle."

"That's reasonable," she said with a nod. "Perhaps you can help with the other mystery. Run your fingers along the back." She held out them out.

He complied, and upon encountering the waves, his eyes turned thoughtful. "Interesting."

"Is it possible that the plaques are keys to a secret room where the full history is recorded?"

"It's possible," he responded absently as he took both plaques into his laboratory. He whisked the pulpy mess aside with a wave of his wand and lay the plaques face down on the bench. "It's also possible that these plaques were just made by someone unskilled with the plane."

He pulled a large magnifying lens from a drawer and examined the plaques.

"You don't really think that these patterns are just a coincidence?"

"No, Hermione, I don't. Look and see for yourself."

With the two laying side by side, it was easy to see how similar their patterns were. As a matter of fact, the ridges on the two plaques were exactly the same distance apart. The only difference between the patterns was-

"They fit together!"

"Take a point to your house."

She shot him a half-annoyed, half-exhilarated look and handed him the Slytherin plaque. She took the Gryffindor plaque in her hands.

"Well, shall we do the honours?"

He set down his plaque. "Miss Granger," he said testily, "if you would be so kind as to think for a moment, you'd realize that we are in a laboratory that is well-stocked with powerful and volatile potions ingredients. This is hardly the ideal location for unleashing unknown magics."

"Sorry, sir," she said, contritely.

"Patience is not just a virtue, in potions it is a necessity. Now, if you can control yourself for a few more minutes, I wish to finish the first step of this-"

"Tequila?"

He nodded. "Madam Hooch's birthday is coming up. It's her favourite day to live up to her surname. You will excuse me." He returned to mashing.

Rather than adjourning to the next room, she peered over his shoulder at the recipe. It was very simple, and it seemed that Severus had things well in hand. However, the evaporator was still in pieces on the other side of the bench. Since it seemed he had quite a bit of mashing to go, she went about setting it up the way the recipe indicated.

His head shot up at the unexpected clink of glassware. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Setting up the evaporator. It seemed like you had your hands full."

He looked down at his own hands, dripping with agave juice. There was a moment's pause before he haltingly thanked her.

"You're welcome."

When the agave pulp had been put in to distil, Severus joined her in the bedroom. He glared disapprovingly at the white circle she had made in the carpet.

"Come now, Miss Granger. Do you really think a containment vortex is necessary?"

She met his eye squarely. "Do you think it worth the risk?"

The corners of his mouth turned down even further. "You realize that my carpet will never be the same?"

Her giddiness temporarily got the better of her. "Sod the carpet! And for pity's sake, Severus, take the other plaque and let's have done with it."

He took up the Slytherin plaque with a mulish look, but held it out for her with an air of resignation. "I suppose it wouldn't do much good if I told you I didn't give a damn about the plaques, would it?"

She looked at him with surprise. "Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"Not really. What could it possibly tell us that we didn't know already?"

"I wasn't thinking in terms of us. I was thinking in terms of history."

"Well," he said with a sardonic twist of lip, "don't let me stand between you and destiny."

She ignored him and brought the back of her plaque in contact with the back of his, probably with more force than was strictly necessary. The pieces met and locked together with a hollow-sounding click.

Whatever Hermione expected, it wasn't what happened. She had expected ethereal choirs or a repetition of the light that had filled her and Severus in the wee hours of the morning. She expected something to indicate that they'd solved a millenium-old puzzle. Something more than a nearly inaudible click.

But that's all there was. A click.

Severus opened his eyes cautiously- apparently she hadn't been the only one to expect fireworks.

"Well," he said at last. "are you going to examine it, or are you going to continue standing there staring like an idiot?"

She turned the joined plaques over and paused when her fingers encountered the edges of the plaque. Tiny, cylindrical sections had risen from the plaques' edges. They looked like tiny hinges.

"Amazing," she said. "The whole thing is mechanical!"

"What?"

"Look!" With the soft pads of her fingers, she loosened the impossibly thin wooden edges of the plaque faces and pulled them apart gently. They slid open like book leaves to reveal a second surface of names.

"Medea's babysitter," Severus swore, awestruck.

She wordlessly handed him the Slytherin Sybarite face, and they drew the plaques gently apart. They unfolded like paper dolls on tiny wooden hinges, each new face revealing more names and competition years. Centuries of Studs and Sybarites were laid bare for their perusal, a great Jacob's Ladder of their houses' traditions. When the plaques had been opened to their fullest, Hermione and Severus were standing at opposite ends of the room. She had even taken a few steps into the bathroom.

Without speaking, they both laid down their separate ends and walked to the centre of the circle, where the two histories were fitted seamlessly together.

Anno Domani 1040 Godric Gryffindor et Salazar Slytherin 

_Estuans interius ira vehementi in amaritudine loquor mee menti: _

factus de materia, cinis elementi similis sum folio, de quo ludunt venti.

Burning inside with fervent passion, I bitterly speak to my mind:

Composed of matter, the ashes of elements, I am a leaf in the wind.

_Cum sit enim proprium viro sapienti supra petram ponere sedem fundamenti, _

_stultus ego comparor fluvio labenti, sub eodem tramite nunquam permanenti. _

While the wisest men set foundations over stone,

I emulate the flowing stream, whose path is never fixed.

_Feror ego veluti sine nauta navis, ut per vias aeris vaga fertur avis; _

_non me tenent vincula, non me tenet clavis, quero mihi similes et adiungor pravis. _

I float as boat without a sailor, through the airways as a bird in flight;

Chain may not keep me, keys cannot imprison me, I seek like-minded souls and join the perverse.

_Mihi cordis gravitas res videtur gravis; iocis est amabilis dulciorque favis; _

_quicquid Venus imperat, labor est suavis, que nunquam in cordibus habitat ignavis. _

My heavy heart is a burden; it is wonderful to joke and sweeter than honey;

Whatsoever Venus commands is pleasurable work, she never stays in a slothful heart.

_Via lata gradior more iuventutis implicor et vitiis immemor virtutis, _

voluptatis avidus magis quam salutis, mortuus in anima curam gero cutis.

I tread the road of life as a callow youth, heedless of virtue

Of all things, I desire pleasure , the soul is dead, so I cherish the flesh.

In retrospect, a grand Slytherin/Gryffindor romance really was the only logical answer to all of the riddles. On some level, they had to have seen it coming. But even as they wordlessly separated the plaques, they felt the weight of their discovery settle comfortably onto their shoulders. And for the first time in many years, Severus felt that he had made a very good decision. Of course, he didn't get around to telling Hermione that for several years. After thwapping him with a pillow, she found herself in perfect accord.

THE END

Direct quotes:

"You sly thing, you never said a word!" Mrs. Bennett, _Pride & Prejudice,_ Jane Austen (150 points to Subtilior for spotting that!)

"Claws in, you cat!" Prof. H. Higgins, _Pygmailon**, **_G.B. Shaw. VBG.

Nose off-centre: GoF, naturally.

"Flying Arse," from my dear friend Sam's refrain, "What the flyin' ass?"

Thin justification of RHPS lore: hey, Dean grew up believing he was a Muggle! Be glad I didn't have him conjure up some toast.

_Bum gall unwaith-hynny oedd._ "I was wise once, when I was born I cried." Welsh Proverb.

The Latin poem comes from Carmina Burana, written by the Goliards in the 11th century and famously set to music by Carl Orff in the 1930s. The Goliards were vagabond intellectuals who somehow managed not to avoid prosecution for heresy, in spite of their fondness for satirizing the Church. The translation is mostly my own. Part of me wishes I didn't drop out of Latin after two years, but most of me isn't ;)

Thanks: Where would I be without my betas and advice mavens, Jeff, Dana and Anna? Someplace without a final chapter, to be sure. And all of you wonderful, wonderful reviewers have really made me work to ensure that this final chapter means something (within the confines of the challenge's strictures). The response to this story has completely blown me away. Thank you all so much for all of your kind words and constructive criticism. If the last chapter lets you down, please e-mail me and tell me how I can make it better.

Excuses: After leaving one 50,000-word behemoth unfinished (I will finish it one day!), I promised myself that I'd never again post an unfinished story. Then I read this challenge and thought I could get away with it. And then my boyfriend (and alpha-beta reader) proposed (I said "yes"), I had a big audition (They said "no," but they also admitted they lost my paperwork, and put off answering my calls for a month), and I went on a trip with my future in-laws (how lucky am I to get in-laws more normal than my family?). So as you've all gathered, I'm really sorry this chapter took way too long, but life interfered in the best possible way. I hope y'all won't attack me with too many sharp instruments. At this point, I'd probably give you a big kiss and go floating off into the sunset, even if you did.


End file.
